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Bruce Was on His Feet Staring Down at Her 







THE 

DEAR PRETENDER 


BY 

ALICE ROSS COLVER 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

CHARLES HARGENS Jr. 


THE PENN PUBLISHING 
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 
1924 



COPYRIGHT 
1934 BY 
THE PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 



The Dear Pretender 


Manufacturing 

Plant 


Camden, N. J. 


Made in the U. S. A. 


MAR 10 *24 

©C1A778323 

*Y j , A « 



To 

CAROLYN ROSS DOCKSTADER 



t 











The Dear Pretender 


CHAPTER I 


“ Miss Carter ! ” 

Nan, hanging her hat on the small overcrowded 
rack provided for the stenographers at Dorf and 
Zuckermann's, repressed a slight start at the abrupt¬ 
ness of the summons. She turned to face the 
owner of the voice. 

He stood, a thick uninviting figure, in his shirt 
sleeves, mopping a scowling forehead beaded with 
perspiration. Beneath the handkerchief were dark 
eyes, concentrating in their depths an ill humor that 
had become fixed in the lines of his face. 

“ Yes, Mr. Dorf.” Nan’s pleasant face held no 
trace of the repugnance her employer stirred in her. 
“ I am quite ready.” 

She picked up her pad and pencil and followed by 
the commiserating glances of her fellow workmen, 
moved swiftly through the door marked Private. 
As it shut upon her, the tension in the room she had 
left lifted. 

“ Glad ’twasn't me late,” murmured Phoebe Carr 
as she patted her well padded ear puffs and glanced 
down at her revealing skirt complacently. 

5 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Old man’s going to raise hell to-day,” proph¬ 
esied the office boy, shifting his chewing gum with 
a noisy smack. There was a note of jubilant 
excitement in the words. Raising hell meant 
at least a change in the monotonous routine of 
things. 

Nan, seating herself without fuss by the desk 
before which Dorf had heavily sunk, found herself 
stiffening for battle. Dorf, always disagreeable, 
had in his manner this hot morning a particular 
menace. His quiet, as he fumbled about his clut¬ 
tered desk for papers, was the quiet before a gather¬ 
ing storm. 

“ Late again this morning, Miss Carter.” It was 
flung sidewise at her, an accusation demanding an 
explanation. 

Nan's shoulders lifted ever so slightly. 

“ There was a hold-up in the subway,” she said 
evenly. He might believe it or not. It was the 
truth. 

“ Humph. Yesterday too? ” 

“ No.” That was all she would give him, be¬ 
cause this man would never understand the simple 
fact of her lingering at her boarding house to do 
what she might for a woman taken suddenly ill. 
Nan was polite but uncommunicative. 

“Nine o’clock is the rule in this office.” The 
6 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


voice grated on Nan’s sensibilities. “ Anybody 
who comes trailing in when they—please, does it 
just so long and no longer. Get me? ” 

The tide of anger that swept up in Nan startled 
her. She knew suddenly that sometime something 
in her would break loose, and fly openly at Dorf, 
not beat silently against him. Used as she was, 
after twelve months’ service here, to this man’s 
coarseness and rudeness, she found it jarring on her 
afresh this morning. As a rule he accorded her a 
politeness of sorts, a contemptuous deference for 
which Nan had been grateful. It marked at least a 
discernment of the difference between finely bred 
Nan Carter and the other stenographers. ,' 

But Nan’s gray eyes were calm and undisturbed, 
hiding successfully the hot flash she had felt. 
There was no use in showing it, no use in risking 
the loss of twenty-five a week. Not at this time 
anyhow, with sister Betty facing the expenses of a 
doctor’s bill and a new baby, with David needing a 
suit of clothes- 

Her unruffled demeanor irritated the man anew. 
He plunged into dictation, growling through it at a 
terrific rate of speed. Nan’s fingers flew, her whole 
self strung taut in the necessity for swiftness and 
accuracy. She strained her ears in an effort to un¬ 
derstand his thick utterance, not daring to pause for 
7 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


thought, not daring to interrupt. An hour of this 
and she was dismissed with peremptory orders to 
“ get ’em out at once.” 

Nan’s face was white when she returned to her 
typewriter. The heat instead of flushing her seemed 
to drain her of strength and color. Her smoke-gray 
eyes, always big, seemed larger, her fringing lashes 
and fine curving brows blacker in contrast to her 
pallor. 

“Pretty fierce, was he?” Phcebe’s low-toned 
query held a note of sympathy. She liked Nan. 
Everyone liked Nan. In spite of the looks of her 
she was no snob, and her hair was real gold,—not 
fixed up a bit. 

Nan nodded. Her smile, a little weary, flashed 
about the room. It had a way of lightening dusty 
comers, dispelling irritation. Subtly the atmosphere 
changed as Nan’s head bent over her work. A 
sharpness disappeared; there was a laugh or two. 
Nan, unaware that she was the cause for a creeping 
harmony, was only glad to be here in this room with 
its clutter and dirt and noise, rather than back in 
the cooler room with Dorf. 

Two hours later she carried the letters in to the 
man. There had been a noisy conference in here, 
an angry exit. Miss Ferguson had fainted from the 
heat in the outer office and Phoebe had produced 
8 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


sardine sandwiches at noon. All these incidents, 
added to her difficulty in deciphering her own short¬ 
hand, had put Nan on edge. It was with a sigh of 
relief that she laid the pile beside Dorf and turned 
to go. 

Luncheon on a day like this was not to be thought 
of. Nan’s stomach revolted. The sidewalks blazed 
up at her a heat as intense as that which came blaz¬ 
ing down. She hurried to one of New York’s little 
parks. Here at least was shade, the restfulness of 
green, if one could overlook swarming, squabbling 
children. 

For an hour Nan rested, musing. Was she 
always and forever to do this sort of work, she 
wondered? Would she never find the road to her 
heart’s dream? If only she knew how to go about 

hunting for it- But what she wanted was so 

unusual that an opening would come only once in a 
lifetime if it came then. In the meantime she must 
work to live. She threw her head back, lifting her 
face to the glaring blue far overhead. How many 
others were there doing what they didn’t want to 
do ? How many others were there with need keep¬ 
ing their feet on the earth and desire struggling to 
wing them to high open spaces? 

A clock on a neighboring church roused Nan 
from her self-absorption. With dismay she saw it 
9 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


was one o’clock. What had come over her lately 
to be so careless of time? Breathless and panting 
she arrived at the office to find it in a stir of ex¬ 
citement. 

Zuckermann had come in with an irate customer. 
Someone had mixed up a large order of his and his 
business henceforth would be transferred elsewhere. 
Zuckermann was furious, Dorf’s grim ugliness a 
fearful thing. Miss Ferguson was to blame and she 
had been fired, half sick as she was, and quite re¬ 
gardless of her long record for good work. Every¬ 
one was nervous. Sudden silences fell as doors 
opened. Breathy groans of relief were heard as 
doors shut. Nan, thankful that her late return was 
unobserved, slipped quietly into her place. 

Her relief was short lived. 

“ Miss Carter back yet ? ” 

The question held the knowledge of her lateness. 
Nan, with some trepidation, once more faced Dorf 
in his office. There was a triumphant leer on his 
face but strangely enough, he made no comment. 
Nan felt sure that his restraint boded no good for 
her. He was holding back for some purpose. 
Thrusting some letters at her he briefly ordered them 
typed again. There was heavy sarcasm in his aside 
to Zuckermann. 

“ Maybe some people are too good for this office 
10 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


but they’re not so good they don’t make a million 
mistakes.” 

Nan flushed and paled. This was certainly un¬ 
deserved. Never once had she flaunted a belief in 
her superiority to the people about her. In real 
humility she had worked at first, feeling keenly her 
inexperience in the business world, giving gener¬ 
ously admiration and credit where they were due. 
She had improved swiftly and steadily. Her pride 
and determination had managed that, but she had 
also succeeded somehow in retaining her modesty. 
If she had drawn aside, it was a shrinking taking 
place entirely within herself. Outwardly she was a 
good mixer. 

She took the letters and returned to her place. 
A fly buzzed persistently about her damp forehead. 
The odor in the small office of orange peel and 
chewing gum and warm, wet bodies grew more 
nauseating. Twice the room rocked and billowed 
before Nan’s tired eyes. 

At last she was done and trembling with fatigue 
she stood before Dorf, her gray eyes in a set white 
face, meeting his narrow gaze quietly. 

“ Now little girl, I’ll give you a change of occupa¬ 
tion. Just take this packet and run down to- 

Street and ask for Mr. Katz.” 

So this was what he had kept silence for. He 
11 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


knew Nan’s unwillingness to go on errands. Her 
refusal had settled the matter early in her career 
there. Her cool look measured his slitted one for a 
while. Within her something was swelling and 
swelling. 

“ I am not an errand boy, Mr. Dorf. I am a 
stenographer.” 

Nan heard herself in some surprise. Her spirit 
unafraid of consequences had broken loose at 
last. 

“ You’re not, eh? ” The heavy threatening face 
on a level with Nan’s moved closer. “ No, I know 
you’re not. But Charlie’s out on another trip and 
you like to be obliging. I’m sure you do when you 
know how much it means to you.” Nan’s mind 
registered the implication but slid over it. “ This 
is important. It’s got to get to Katz within an 
hour. I’m considerate to give you a chance to make 
up for coming late. Are you going? ” 

“ No.” 

A little grunt came from the man. Then his face 
reddened darkly. 

“ All right, but I’ll tell you one place you will go. 
That’s out of this office quick.” 

A torrent of angry abusing words fell on the 
stunned girl. She gathered that she had been con¬ 
stantly late, always careless, indifferent to office 
12 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


rules and office courtesy. Courtesy! At that she 
laughed aloud and moved toward the door. 

“ Shall I go now? ” 

“ Yes, now! ” 

Dorf was shouting at her. Nan reminded him 
that four days’ pay was due her. He made out a 
check while she went into the outer office and 
put on her hat. Amid a stupefied silence she 
met Dorf at his door, gave him a straight, 
direct look and said clearly with unmistakable 
sincerity: 

“ Thank you very much for discharging me. I'm 
much more glad to go than you are to have me.” 

Her nod and smile as she gave it to the others in 
the office held nothing but joyous relief. She was 
glad to go. She was not feeling this a dismissal but 
an escape. 

In the subway on her way up-town she faced the 
situation fearlessly. She was out of a job, in the 
middle of the summer, with no reference from the 
one place she had worked. Her room rent was due 
in two days and because Nan had succumbed to the 
lure of an eider-down baby blanket for Betty, she 
would be unable to meet it. 

Having no home to go to, she couldn't go home. 
The box of a room on the third floor of the board¬ 
ing house was all that Nan had called home for a 
13 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


year. Of course, Betty would be awfully glad to 
have her come up to Connecticut, but with David 
there, and a trained nurse coming so soon, there 
wouldn’t be space. Besides she couldn’t live on the 
kindness of her married sister, who was having 
financial troubles of her own. Pride and considera¬ 
tion forbade that. Betty was giving their brother 
David a home till he finished High School. That 
was enough. No, clearly Nan couldn’t go to Betty. 
Couldn’t even write her of her dilemma, for fear of 
disturbing her at this time. 

The twins, Bob and Harold, were boarding like 
herself and Ben was afar West. That ended Nan’s 
family. She had no one she could call a friend in 
the whole city of New York. 

As Nan got off the subway she bought a news¬ 
paper. She would run through the “want-ads” 
as soon as she had reached her room and had cooled 
herself. There might, there just might be an open¬ 
ing somewhere waiting for her. Usually somebody 
wanted a stenographer. 

At that Nan found herself in open rebellion. 
The spirit that had broken loose in her before Dorf, 
that had made her meet his gloating over her dis¬ 
aster with cool indifference, was raging in her, pos¬ 
sessing her. She found herself declaring she would 
not be a stenographer again. She would not settle 
14 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


down to a work more than distasteful to her. She 
would do what she wanted to do, somehow, some¬ 
way. 

Bright-eyed, a little breathless but with this daring 
new determination hardening in her she finally 
reached her room. It was not attractive, even with 
Nan’s personal possessions warming and coloring 
it, but it had been a refuge from detested toil and 
Nan had grown to love it. It boasted a narrow 
white iron bed, a white bureau with a cracked 
mirror, a table that served as desk, one chair and 
one window. Nan’s pictures on the whitewashed 
wall and the gay cretonne curtains and bed covering 
saved it from dreariness. 

She flung up the window, pushed back the cur¬ 
tains and leaned out. Below her lay one of New 
York’s hottest streets, its narrow width a clutter 
of small humanity swarming to noisy play. Shops 
bulged their wares onto the sidewalks where fat 
women sat in stolid untidiness. Bits of paper, 
swirling in a hot breeze, fluttered up, then down 
again. Truck carts rattled by, vendors shouting 
their wares. A sickening odor of overripe fruit 
was borne up to Nan and she turned back to her 
room wrinkling a small nose in disgust. 

She slipped of! her hat and dress, bathed her face, 
neck and hands and then, in a light kimono, 
15 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


stretched herself on her bed with the paper. She 
would run through the “ want-ads”—there was 
time before dinner—and if there was nothing there 
of interest—she would—yes she would—put one in 
herself. And she would not offer her services as a 
stenographer. 

With a practiced eye she ran down the list. A 
few stenographers, many cooks, any number of 
general houseworkers were desired. Nan sighed, 
frowned, then laughed. She laughed because she 
was young and untried and ignorant; because this 
was the first time she had ever gone job hunting; 
because her predicament offered adventure, a new 
freedom, sweet for all its danger; and myriad fan¬ 
tastic solutions for an imaginative mind such as 
Nan's. She laughed and was gloriously unafraid, 
serenely confident, irrevocably determined not to 
return to the business world. 

Saturday came and Nan, firmly established in 
the affections of the landlady, received permission 
to stay a week longer. It was magnanimous, for 
Mrs. Brent possessed a sharp nature covering a 
softness that none in the house but Nan had dis¬ 
covered. 

Nan, a little anxious now, a little sharper eyed, 
was sweetly grateful. She had learned a good deal 
in two days, had Nan, and though she still did not 
16 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 

regret the chain of circumstances that had led to her 
dismissal from Dorf & Zuckermann’s, was still 
firm in her refusal to return to an office, she never¬ 
theless appreciated the regularity of a weekly pay 
envelope from whatever source it might come. 
Daily visits to employment agencies, nightly scan¬ 
ning of a dozen newspapers jogged Nan’s courage 
but not her faith. Somewhere in the world was 
the empty place she wanted to fill, the work she 
wanted to do. 

Sunday night Nan very earnestly worked over 
an “ ad ” she intended to run in the papers for a few 
days. It was a desperate chance, this spending of 
her next to last dollars, but something had to be 
done. Waiting, and watching were only doings of 
a sort. She must actively take a step to procure for 
herself what she so desired. 

By Wednesday night Nan was hanging to her 
belief in the eternal allrightness of things out of 
sheer stubbornness. Three days left for someone 
to answer her ad. Three days more in which she 
might see one that appealed to her. After that— 
Nan, wondering herself,—laughed a little. 

She has always believed it was the laugh that did 
it. Laughter always sets the Hard Luck Fairies 
to scampering, always acts as a clear summons for 
the Good Luck Fairies to gather about. But of 
17 






THE DEAR PRETENDER 


course her laugh did not put the advertisement in 
the paper. It was there all the time, next to hers, 
so startlingly close as to seem a direct answer. 

Hers was making its appearance for the last time, 
a simple clear request. 

“ Wanted—a position as Mother in a family of 
wealth and refinement. References given. Inter¬ 
view requested. Address H. A. Carter—c/o Even¬ 
ing Sun.” 

And below it she saw a heaven-sent reply dove¬ 
tailing to her need. 

“ Wanted—a lover of children to act as pseudo¬ 
mother to a boy and a girl. Education, tact, 
patience and culture are the only requirements. 
Salary generous. References asked and given. 
Answer XYZ c/o Evening Sun.” 

Nan rose from her bed, wonder and excitement 
lighting her like a flame. 

“ I knew it,” she whispered. “ I’ve always 
known it. If you wait long enough and want hard 
enough dreams do come true.” 

It was a delicate task, this answering of the ad¬ 
vertisement. Nan wanted it to be unique, desired it 
to stand out clearly among the others that she knew 
would pour in to XYZ. It must interest and pique 
so that an interview would result. 

She used up sheets of paper, scribbling away in 
18 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


her hot little room, but nothing quite satisfied. 
Finally an idea came to her. She cut out the two 
advertisements, pasted them together on a clean 
sheet of paper and then wrote quite simply,— 

Dear XYZ: 

The first advertisement is mine. The 
second is yours. It seems to me that they answer 
each other. May we not make sure in an inter¬ 
view? 

Yours very truly, 

(Miss) Hannah-Anne Carter. 


19 




CHAPTER II 


Nan had clung to her dream through many years, 
dipping it here, adding to it there as she had 
matured, until now it was as clear and shining and 
whole as a bright new penny. 

What she wanted was a husbandless home and 
fatherless children and enough money to buy her¬ 
self the clothes she had been denied in her aching 
girlhood. The home was to be filled with every 
luxury man could devise, and it was to be hers by 
right of her position as mother make-believe; the 
children were to be a curly-haired girl and a sturdy- 
limbed lad and were to be hers by the conquest of 
love; and the money was to be hers in payment for 
her intelligent, loving services. 

If it sounds selfish you must know that it was not 
calculatingly and deliberately so. It was the nature 
of events, not the nature of Nan that had twisted 
a husband out of her dreams and had left her un- 
desirous of the difficult adjustment to wifehood 
and the physical discomfort of motherhood. There 
was a reason back of it, the reason being a deep- 
rooted and sincere distrust of men. In Nan's brief 
experience they had proved themselves cruel in 
their betrayal of friendship, ruthless in their 
material greed and in their wanton robbing of 
20 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


women. All men were like that. Oh, Nan knew! 
Her whole life told her so. Men were not to be 
trusted, therefore not to be liked, and certainly not 
to be loved or married,—not by Nan Carter at any 
rate. 

Nan's first glimpse into the selfish souls of men 
had been on a wintry night many years ago. 

Never would she forget that dreadful time when 
her father came home from a place called Business 
and forgot to laugh. He stood knee-deep among 
Nan's younger brothers—there were so many! wee 
David, toddling Ben and the boisterous twins of 
four,—his face strange, his voice stranger as he 
said to Mother: 

“ Fight’s over, Mother, and I'm beaten.” 

Nan looked for signs of combat on Daddy and 
was mystified to find none. When the twins fought 
one of them always got bloody. Daddy explained 
later, when sister Betty and her brothers were all in 
bed, that it was his heart that was bleeding inside 
him, because he was beaten in the game of life and 
a dream was broken. 

Nan was surprised at this. Did grown-ups dream 
too? About wishing wands and fairies clothed in 
dresses like milky moonlight ? She waited trying to 
fathom this new look of hurt and defeat in the eyes 
so like her own. 


21 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Then Daddy explained some more. How his 
dream had been to put on the market a machine that 
he and another man had spent years inventing and 
which was at last perfected; how just as they had 
been ready to do so, a combination of companies, 
knowing about this new machine and wanting to 
share in the profits it would make, had decided to 
force Dad's company to join them; how this had 
angered him so he had decided to fight the Trust; 
and how for three years he had played a losing game, 
seeing the Trust steal his best customers from him 
because they could afford to undersell him; how at 
last his money was all gone, his business wrecked 
and his hope of marketing the machine more of a 
dream than ever. 

The bitterest part of it all had been the discovery 
that one of the men—a friend of Dad's, whom Dad 
believed to be the largest stockholder of the new 
trust,—had apparently voted with the rest of the 
men to force Dad to join or quit Dad had felt 
sure his influence could have avoided the catas¬ 
trophe. 

Nine-year-old Nan thrilled with sympathy and 
throbbed with hate. She did not, of course, grasp 
all the business details. Two facts only were clear 
in her child mind. First, letting the Trust share 
the profits of a machine you had helped invent was 
22 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


as bad as letting someone else name your baby. 
Dad had to fight. Second, having lost the fight, 
it meant, instead of broken bones or a bleeding nose, 
that they would all have to leave their lovely big 
home, move away to another town and squeeze into 
a tiny house without anybody to cook for them or 
cut the grass or be nurse for the children. Nan 
would have to be nurse and Mother would be cook 
and Dad would cut the grass. 

That is just what happened. 

While it was new it was quite fun. They all 
made a game of it. But as the days went by and 
Mother grew first silent and then bitter under the 
daily drudging toil, life became a thing of aching 
endurance. 

For four years Nan did the work of a woman. 
Out of school it was her business to care for baby 
David, the twins, Ben and Betty. Nan liked the 
responsibility of this big task. She had an immense 
capacity for loving babies and a strangely mature 
wisdom concerning them. Day after day Nan 
briskly organized the play with an authority that 
was never questioned. She gravely administered 
justice and settled disputes. She capably washed 
hands and tied shoe-strings, tenderly bathed bumps, 
lovingly sang songs and patiently told stories. 
Most precious reward after hours of such tiring 
23 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


service that wearied her slim little body, brushed 
the fairy grace from her movements and painted 
shadows under her brave gray eyes, was Dad’s dear 
hand resting on her head and his look that dove deep 
into her heart and set it trembling, as he said,— 

“You blessed Nan-shine! We couldn’t get 
along without you. You stand things better than 
the grown-ups.” 

It was true, for Nan’s imagination aided and 
abetted by Daddy-dearest readily transformed 
shrunken, faded clothes into splendid raiment, bent 
and broken shoes into magic boots, a bare, shabby 
yard into a garden inhabited by fairies. At present 
they were all under a spell cast by the Hard Luck 
Fairies—a spell that imposed work and deprivations 
and sordidness,—but in time the spell would be 
broken and the Good Luck Fairies would come 
trooping back bringing wealth, space, leisure and 
grace of spirit such as Nan remembered and longed 
for. 

But the worst thing the Hard Luck Fairies had 
done was to bewitch Mother. Nan was deeply 
troubled over it and she could find no way to aid in 
breaking the evil charm that was woven about her. 
The fairy that did it kept on doing it,—carving ugly 
lines in her face, putting sour words in her mouth, 
dragging at her hands and her feet until she became 
24 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


as gnarled outside as inside. Nan and Daddy disr- 
cussed this happening at length, with sorrow rather 
than anger, with pity rather than fear. And it was 
the things that Daddy said at that time that stayed 
by Nan through many years to come. 

“ There are Hard Luck Fairies and Good Luck 
Fairies, you know, Nan-shine,” he told her, “ and 
if the Hard Luck Fairies once get a grip on you 
it’s difficult to shake them off. The best way to 
hold them off is to keep smiling.” 

“ You really do believe in fairies, don’t you, 
Daddy?” 

“ I really do,” he told her gravely. 

“ And dreams?” 

There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation on the part 
of the man whose life dream had gone to smash. 

“ And dreams,” he said steadily. 

“ But yours didn’t come true.” 

“ It hasn’t yet, and probably I will never be the 
one to make it come true. But if it’s a dream worth 
having, it’ll come true some day.” 

“ Then dreams that aren’t worth having don’t 
come true ? ” 

“ Well, you couldn’t blame the good fairies for 
not making them come true, could you? ” 

“ But Daddy—yours ? ” 

Daddy reflected, meeting the earnest, questioning 
25 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


gaze of the little girl at his knee, who was trying so 
hard to reconcile Fancy and Reason. 

“ Perhaps I was selfish about mine. Perhaps I 
should have shared it with the Trust. Perhaps 
that’s why I can’t be the one to make it come true.” 
Then he took Nan’s little hands in his big ones and 
his voice deepened. “ You will have lots of dreams. 
Nan-shine, but keep the dearest one a dream of 
service, if you can. The fairies will back you in it 
every time, I’m sure.” 

Soon after this the long years of strain and work 
snapped something in Daddy. A lingering illness 
finally took him from them and Mrs. Carter was left 
to battle with life for her children. 

By putting a fairly large mortgage on the little 
house the Carters were able to struggle along but 
it was difficult business at best and Nan, growing up, 
found life perplexing. One could not always 
change the facts of living for the fancy of dreams. 
One had to face the need for food, the anxiety of 
illness, the terror of unpaid bills, the increasing 
ugliness of her mother’s temper worn out by worry 
and work. Nan tried to shut her ears to daily com¬ 
plaints but the acidity that had become habitual to 
the older woman could not but have its effect on 
her. She came gradually to believe that the men 
who had ruined her father financially had been in- 
26 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


directly the instruments of his death. With this 
belief came Nan’s first glimpse into the depths of 
her soul. If this were true then she hated those 
men as greatly as she had loved her father. She 
said nothing, but the hatred was bom and nourished 
by the words of her mother. 

She came to believe too that if a man’s friends 
weren’t to be trusted, certainly strangers weren’t; 
that the only way to go through life was to regard 
with dark suspicion and intense dislike all those of 
the male species. Mrs. Carter practiced faithfully 
what she preached. Nan, shrinking, listened to 
squabbles with butcher and grocer; sharp-voiced 
bargaining over counters; soft-footed spying upon 
plumber and carpenter to see that idleness was not 
being paid for. Nan despised this way of living. 
She hated the worn little cottage where their lovely 
old mahogany furniture was such a sad misfit. She 
remembered distinctly her first home, its cool 
spaciousness, soft colors, gleaming floors and wood¬ 
work, remembered and craved it with the fierceness 
of a young girl’s desire for luxury. 

Nan at fourteen was a contradiction. There were 
battling in her two impulses, the one an impulse to 
slump to the dinginess of her life, accepting it as 
her inevitable lot and growing bitter of speech like 
her mother; the other a winging desire to believe in 
27 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


a beauty and loveliness that must some day be hers, 
because she wanted it so. Day by day Nan's great 
gray eyes darkened in mutiny at the cramping of 
finances, the denial of pleasures belonging to youth, 
the dreariness of greasy dish water and worn-out 
cut-over clothes, for she was a very human little 
girl. But the memory of her father always helped 
her to close her lips against audible rebellion and 
her inherited ability to dream kept her spirit brave 
and sweet. 

At first Nan's dream was simply to get back into 
a place of beauty, to a house where she might have 
a room to herself and need never wash dishes. But 
gradually there was added to this desire for a home, 
a desire for money and babies. Somehow, some¬ 
where, Nan would acquire a couple of children who 
would be as much hers as though they really were! 

When Nan was eighteen a sharp, short illness 
ended Mrs. Carter's struggle with life. Before any 
of them could realize the danger, it was over and 
Nan, clear-eyed, courageous and hopeful, faced the 
world with her adoring brothers and sister Betty 
pinning their faith on her. Her years spent in 
playing mother now stood her in good stead. They 
accepted her decisions and judgments regarding 
their future as they had accepted her settlements of 
childish squabbles. They were all to finish High 
28 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


School, if they had to sell every stick of their 
beautiful old mahogany furniture to manage it. 

It was the furniture incident that sharpened Nan’s 
general dislike and distrust of men into a keenly 
personal emotion. A wealthy neighbor, a collector 
of antiques, hearing of their want, bought almost all 
they were willing to sell. At the time, Nan in her 
ignorance thought the sum he paid her enormous. 
But she learned too late that she had received about 
one-half what the stuff was worth. Her fury 
blazed up in an outburst to seventeen-year-old Betty. 

“ The old miser! ” she stormed. “ He knew we 
were poor and alone and young and he took advan¬ 
tage of it! He could afford to pay what they were 
worth. I hate him! I hate them all! Men! 
Don’t talk to me! They’re after me all the time to 
pay this and that and the other-” 

Four more years found Nan twenty-two, facing 
with a scornful calm the fact that the mortgage was 
to be foreclosed. The kind gentleman who had so 
obligingly made the loan had steadily amassed 
money until he had reached the state where he 
objected to sitting on his own broad verandah and 
seeing the shabby little white house under his nose. 
It was to be removed and a pond with water-lilies 
and ducks put there instead. He knew they couldn’t 
pay. Nan knew he knew it. Her dislike of men 
29 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and their methods was now a hot hatred coated with 
cold, contemptuous distrust. 

However, on looking over the situation, Nan 
finally decided it was not as bad as it might be. 
Betty was to be married in a month and would take 
David to live with her until he finished school. 
(Nan unwillingly liked Harold Cort—Betty’s fiance. 
But it was, she argued, because he was still a boy 
and not a man. She liked boys, especially if 
they were brothers and of course Harold would 
be, in a minute.) The twins had found work in a 
neighboring town and were starting out “ on their 
own,” athrill and unafraid. Ben had been in busi¬ 
ness a year and was rolling in wealth with twenty- 
five dollars coming to him every Saturday. Really, 
everyone was well taken care of except Nan and she 
could take care of herself. 

Nan had studied stenography and typewriting at 
school. Armed with this knowledge and a letter of 
introduction from a neighbor at home, she had 
entered the dingy office of Dorf and Zuckermann’s 
as a sunbeam enters a dusty attic and her career as 
a business woman had begun. Begun and ended in 
twelve months and now at last she was on the edge 
of her dream. 

The thought was tingling, ecstatic. Nan, sitting 
on the edge of her bed, Thursday evening, with a 
30 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


thick braid of pale gold hair over her white 
shoulders, and her gray eyes wide with a wondering, 
blazing excitement, did not look at all like a rabid 
man-hater. But rather she seemed like a little girl 
seeing fairies for the first time. Perhaps she was, 
who knows? Certainly it was not Nan’s imagina¬ 
tion brightening her prospects this time. Was it 
the work of the wee folk themselves? 

Nan rose from her bed and sat down at the little 
table-desk where her father’s picture stood. In her 
hand was an envelope and from it she pulled a letter. 

“ Daddy-dearest, listen to this,” she said softly. 

“ Dear Miss Carter : 

“ Your answer to my advertisement in the 
Evening Sun is at hand. If you can arrange to see 
me in my office at two o’clock Friday I shall be glad 
of an opportunity to discuss the matter in detail. 

“ Yours very truly, 

“ Bruce Wilson.” 

Nan laid down the letter and folded her hands, 
looking straight at the living likeness in the frame 
before her. 

“ Well? ” she asked quietly. “ Is it or isn’t it a 
dream worth having ? ” 

For a long still minute she sat, then because Nan 
had a believing heart, and anyone possessing a be- 
31 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


lieving heart possesses also seeing eyes and hearing 
ears, she fancied she heard somewhere in the outer 
darkness the soft tinkle of fairy laughter. 

She smiled at the picture of Daddy-dearest and 
Daddy-dearest smiled back at her. 


32 




CHAPTER HI 


It was exactly five minutes of two. Nan stood 
before the outer door of the offices of “ The Per¬ 
fection Silk Company,” her hand on the knob. A 
faintly ironical smile twisted her lips for a moment, 
as her eyes fell on the name in the corner of the 
glass, “ President—Bruce Wilson.” For in all the 
various situations she had conjured, in which she 
might be the possessor of two children and a home, 
she had never once fancied herself employed by a 
man,—a widower,—for that is what she supposed 
he must be. Always she had imagined a beautiful 
society woman, selfishly unwilling to give mother- 
service, engaging her—Nan—to do that part. It 
was slightly amusing when she recalled her general 
antipathy toward the man-tribe. 

The office she entered was a surprise to her, its 
cleanliness and order and quiet a marked contrast 
to the place where she had worked for twelve 
months. Waiting in a comfortable chair, close to 
an electric fan, Nan reflected that if she had been 
fortunate enough to start here, or in a similar place, 
she would have found a greater liking for the busi¬ 
ness world. 

“ Mr. Wilson is free now, Miss Carter.” 

Nan rose. The trembling excitement that had 
33 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


possessed her suddenly disappeared now that the 
moment was at hand. Except for a deeper flush 
on her cheeks and starriness of her eyes, she was, to 
all appearances, cool and self-possessed. 

With a little nod and smile of thanks to the boy 
who held open the door for her, she passed through 
into Bruce Wilson's private office. 

She had not known exactly what sort of man she 
was expecting to see, but certainly it was anything 
but this grave-faced, brown-eyed man who stood so 
courteously offering her a chair. If he was a 
widower there was no mark of sorrow or age upon 
him. His brown hair waved crisply back in a dis¬ 
tinctly young and attractive way and he was as 
slimly erect as any six foot American ought to be. 
His face was lean and serious but not sad. 

“ Miss Carter ? ” 

Nan bent her head and took the chair close to the 
desk where she faced the man who held her future 
hopes in his two hands. Strong hands they were, 
Nan noticed with that peculiar attention to unim¬ 
portant details that comes in moments of tension. 
Lean and long hands, well kept, and moving with a 
slow deliberation to pick up Nan's letter. Then 
they were still, as still as the rest of him. 

This stillness of his was distinctive. Nan became 
increasingly conscious of it as the interview pro- 
34 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ceeded. It held beside dignity and control, a quality 
of openness, of readiness to listen and willingness 
to understand. At the same time it held something 
quite baffling, something that seemed to offset his 
apparent open-mindedness. There was in his atti¬ 
tude, in his eyes, perhaps, a faint suspicion, a res¬ 
ervation of opinion as to Nan’s sincerity. She was 
only vaguely conscious of this at first, in her own 
eagerness to make a good impression, herself only 
half aware of the impression he was making on her. 

“ The coincidence of our two advertisements ap¬ 
pearing together was quite striking. But your 
letter told me nothing. I shall want to ask a good 
many questions. You have had experience with 
children? ” 

“ Oh yes.” 

Quite simply and briefly Nan told him the bare 
facts of her life,—of her father’s failure—causing 
the change in their mode of living, of her young 
years spent in caring for her brothers and Betty. 
She kept it a clear recital, void of any emotion, but 
her eyes, flashing and widening and mirroring her 
memories as she talked, made greater revelations 
than she realized. 

“ I should think you would have had enough of 
baby-tending.” 

“ I should too,” she answered surprisingly. “ But 
35 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


when you decide to pick a business for life, you 
usually pick one you love, and if you really love it 
you don’t get tired of it,—not in the heart of you.” 

“ But the rest of you would get tired so that you 
would want every Thursday and Sunday off.” It 
was a suggestion as much as a question. Nan 
looked up in surprise. 

Oh, but no, Mr. Wilson. You don’t understand. 
Or perhaps I don’t. I didn’t think you wanted a— 
just a nurse-girl.” 

“ It was difficult for me to say in that brief adver¬ 
tisement just what I am wanting and expecting of 
the person whom I engage. There will be of course 
no actual physical labor connected with the position. 
You will have nothing whatever to do with the 
meals. Miss Burton, my housekeeper, and the cook 
attend to that. There will be no sewing, although 
I shall leave the purchasing of the children’s clothes 
entirely to you. You would not, in any sense, be 
a nurse-maid, but you would be—I want you to be 
so far as it is possible—a mother to my two chil¬ 
dren. I want you to give them the love and under¬ 
standing and patience that you would give to your 
own.” 

That’s exactly what I want to do,” Nan said 
simply. 

Bruce picked up an ivory paper cutter and held 
36 






THE DEAR PRETENDER 


it quietly in one hand. Apparently he was waiting 
for Nan to say more. 

“ And you see I know that when children are as 
young as two and four, mothers don’t get any time 
off. Not much.” Nan smiling shook her head. 
“ Not easily.” 

“ Don’t you expect any, Miss Carter? ” 

“ I don’t expect it, no.” 

Bruce’s grave look flashed forth for a second 
that suspicion that had lain under the surface. Nan 
met it with an even regard, although her heart ham¬ 
mered heavily. He was, for some unaccountable 
reason, not believing in her, not trusting her. She 
must make him. She would make him. She must 
not start handicapped. 

“ You may want more time than you anticipate. 
Miss Carter,” Wilson spoke slowly, “ time to re¬ 
cuperate from your battles. I feel that it is only 
fair to warn you that my boy is difficult. He is 
headstrong, unloving and unlovable. I needn’t tell 
you in detail the many ways he will try your 
patience, but you may believe me when I say that 
Bob is a problem no one has been able to solve. He 
resents correction, fights discipline and is at present 
quite ungovernable.” 

He passed his hand a little wearily across his 
forehead. 


37 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“Oh! I’m sorry.” Nan leaned forward impul¬ 
sively, one hand resting on the desk. “ I’m sorry 
because I know. David was just that kind of a 
boy.” She hesitated. “ Don’t you think, Mr. 
Wilson, Bobby may just need to be loved? ” 

“ Possibly you are right,” he agreed. “ But he 
doesn’t allow people to love him. I feel—and this 
is something about which I am most positive, Miss 
Carter,—I feel that great harm was done Bobby’s 
nature when he was two. We had a woman then 
who disciplined him by whippings. I didn’t find it 
out for several months and then I discovered my 
boy’s spirit instead of being broken was more re¬ 
bellious and resentful than ever.” 

Again Nan nodded. 

“She was wrong. Whippings are necessary 
sometimes, but not all the time.” 

“ Not any of the time, Miss Carter.” His tone 
was suddenly sharp. “That must be distinctly 
understood between us. Since then I have never 
permitted anyone to raise a hand against Bob. 
Incalculable harm was done him at that time, I feel 

sure and-” he paused, the paper cutter bent in 

his fingers, “ it is simply not to be discussed. If 
you feel that you can’t manage without corporal 
punishment there is no use in our proceeding 
further.” 


38 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan thought rapidly. She had had enough ex¬ 
perience to realize that a severe whipping sometimes 
brought results when nothing else would. Her in¬ 
stinct was all for gentleness, patience, diplomatic 
coaxing of stubborn little personalities, but she had 
found with her youngest brother David, that a small 
whip was the only argument, occasionally. From 
what Mr. Wilson had told her, Bob and David were 
kindred spirits. Nan doubted her ability to govern 
a self-willed, spoiled boy who had defied authority 
for two years, without resort to the old-fashioned 
spanking. But a swift look at Wilson’s set mouth 
convinced her that he meant what he said. Under 
his courteous gentleness was evidently an iron de¬ 
termination. No matter how favorably she might 
have impressed him up to this moment, he would 
not consider her longer unless she yielded to him on 
this point. 

“ I’m sorry we must differ at once, Mr. Wilson,” 
she said slowly. “ Theoretically I agree with you, 
that whippings are cruel and stupid measures to take 
to gain obedience or authority, but practically I 
have found them necessary upon occasions. How¬ 
ever, you have, of course, the final decision in this 
matter and—I shall abide by it.” 

Bruce acknowledged this with a slight inclination 
of his head. Then briskly— 

39 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Now as to salary, it is of course difficult to put 
a price on such service as this that I want. If it is 
worth anything—it is priceless, but I had in 

mind-” 

He named a figure that sounded royal to the little 
stenographer of Dorf and Zuckermann’s. 

“ Is that satisfactory ? ” 

Nan’s laugh rang out. 

“ Oh, that’s too funny! Why, do you know how 
it sounds to me ? It sounds just as though you were 
a prince in a fairy tale and I were the beggar maid. 
I don’t believe it,—not really—but I’m going to, 
because the fun of fairy tales lies in believing 
them.” 

“ And the fun of dreams lies in dreaming them.” 

“That’s fun, of course. But how wonderful 
when dreams really come true.” 

“ It’s been my experience that dreams are soap 
bubbles. They vanish at the first real touch.” 

“ Oh no! ” Nan put out her hands as though to 
push back the idea. “You mustn’t be like that. 
You must always, always believe. Why! Never 
in all my life have I had a dream come true, but 
I’ve kept on believing in them. Mr. Wilson, I have 
to. I have to—or I’d die. I’d want to, I mean.” 

He smiled at her ingenuous eagerness. Nan felt 
it holding some pity for her probable future dis- 
40 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


illusionment, some slight contempt for her youth. 
She bit her lip holding back the thought that 
crowded for utterance. Didn’t she know, too, how 
easy it was to be cynical? But she wouldn’t be. 
She sat silent, her eyes downcast, a flush staining 
her cheeks, wishing with all her might that her little 
girl rush of words had been withheld. 

“ I am very glad to have had this interview, 
Miss Carter,” Mr. Wilson terminated the inter¬ 
view. “ I wanted to meet you, for your letter 
promised personality as so few did. I have not 
been disappointed. However, there have been, of 
course, other applicants to whom I must give fair 
consideration; so if there is nothing else you wish 
to ask I can promise to let you know within three 
or four days how I decide about this.” 

Nan rose. Things were getting dark and noisy 

inside her. “ In three or four days-” Why, 

to-morrow her week would be up and she couldn’t 
beg to stay longer at the boarding house with the 
outcome of this venture still vague. She had been 
so sure, so foolishly sure that her dream was too 
close now to be whisked away. 

Bruce was surprised at the sudden whiteness of 
her face, the startling blackness of her eyes. She 
sent him a brave little smile, murmured a “ Very 
well, thank you,” and turned to go. 

41 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


At the door his voice halted her. 

“ I can, I suppose, reach you at this address any 
time?” 

“ Until to-morrow, Mr. Wilson.” 

Nan turned back again quietly, her small head 
lifted proudly, her mouth set in determination 
against rising tears. 

“Oh, and after that?” 

“ I—really don’t know.” 

It seemed to Nan that they faced each other for 
an eternity. She was unaware of the appeal her 
slightness and whiteness and bravery were making. 
She was fighting too hard to hold to the last shreds 
of her courage to be conscious of anything, so that 
his next words coming from a long and wavering 
distance were a surprise. 

“ I don’t want to lose track of you,” he said at 
last. “ So I think—suppose we try it ? For—say a 
month. You may want to leave before the end of 
that time, you know. My children aren’t angels.” 

In the sudden relief Nan was speechless. Color 
flooded her face and tears were close to the surface. 
She kept her eyes down until she had winked them 
back, then she lifted her face ashine with gratitude 
and happiness. 

“Thank you,” she said simply. “You’ve no 
idea how much this means to me.” 

42 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


In the brown eyes meeting hers across the width 
of the room Nan was startled to meet such a look 
of pain as she had not seen since she had stood be¬ 
fore her beloved father in the days of his disaster. 
It was a devastated look—a look as of something 
precious lost forever. She was dumb before it 
and aghast at her discovery. Silently she turned 
to go. 

“ Just a moment, Miss Carter.” 

Nan turned back to face a grave, self-contained 
man. If it was agreeable to her, he would like to 
advance a month’s salary and they would thus both 
be sure the matter was definitely settled. While 
he made out the check Nan’s belief in the Good Luck 
Fairies crystallized. This would pay her board 
bill and still leave her something for new clothes. 

“ You will be ready when the limousine calls for 
you at five ? ” 

Nan nodded. 

“ Yes, surely.” 

“ That’s all.” 

Bewilderment and joy, tears and the laughter of 
relief were battling for supremacy as Nan slipped 
through the door and away. But joy finally won 
first place. She was to have the position. The 
Good Luck Fairies were backing her. 


43 




CHAPTER IV 


Nan had less than two hours for shopping but 
she made every moment count And while she flew 
in an ecstasy of excitement from the purchasing of 
dresses to the buying of white pumps, her mind 
was busy trying to fathom the reason for the look 
she had surprised in Bruce Wilson's eyes. It 
haunted her, it had come so without warning. Rec¬ 
ollecting her interview bit by bit, she could find 
nothing immediately preceding her departure that 
might have brought up memories of so disturbing a 
nature. 

What was it? 

She finally decided she was over-imaginative, 
strung up to exaggeration because of her own 
emotions. The reason was, of course due to his 
anxiety over Bobby-boy. What man with a diffi¬ 
cult child no one could manage, and himself with¬ 
out time to learn, wouldn't have a queer, desperate 
look sometimes? 

Nan was sorry for him and following that came 
stealing like a blessing over her the belief that she 
was needed in this household to which she was 
going. It gave her as true and great a happiness 
as the realization that she was at last to begin to 
live her dream, for there’s nothing so heart warming 
44 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


to lonely souls as being needed—except being 
wanted. 

“And pretty soon they’ll want me!” Nan 
bobbed her head decisively as she swung through 
the last shop door. “ Bobby and Shirley, I mean.” 

The business of packing was a hastily managed 
affair, interrupted and accompanied by exclamatory 
farewells from all those inmates of the boarding 
house who were home. But at last it was accom¬ 
plished and Nan left her room, stripped of its dear 
familiarity, without a backward glance. 

“ I’m glad I’m alone,” she thought as she sank 
into the cushioned limousine. She was tired and as 
soon as the city had been left behind the big bridge 
she took off her hat and closed her eyes. This was 
life at last. She sniffed, then opened her eyes and 
smiled in contentment at the roses in the vase beside 
her. 

“ I feel as though I were just beginning to live, 

as though-” she wrinkled her forehead, “ how 

queer! As though I were on the edge of some¬ 
thing,—as though I’d been marking time up to now, 
holding my breath waiting for this moment. Oh! 
How silly I am!” 

She laughed at herself, shrugged and settled back 
to enjoyment of the long drive. 

As the car swept into the gravelled driveway 
45 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan felt a thrill of wonder. It was all so exactly 
as she had pictured it. There was a stretch of 
lawn lying golden green in the late sunlight with a 
few glowing Japanese maples breaking the emerald. 
There were splendid trees stretching their full 
length on the grass in cool black shadow. There 
was a cluster of graceful birches spraying their 
dainty network of leaves against the house. 

The house itself was a big rambling stone affair, 
its deep-set windows and wide doorway seeming to 
offer hospitality to all strangers. 

“ It almost speaks,” Nan thought, moving with 
a little half-smile across the broad verandah. 

Behind the butler, coming rapidly down the wide 
stairs to greet Nan, was Miss Burton, the house¬ 
keeper. She was a fussy little woman of trailing 
ends. Her hair, her shawl, her words were always 
in the air. She was full of a busy kindness, 
a gentle fluttering concern over everyone's com¬ 
fort. 

“This is Miss Carter, isn't it? Of course—I 
thought so, though you can't always be sure— 

about anything. Will you- What will you do ? 

Perhaps you're tired, and would like to go to your 
rooms first—or would you-” 

“ Rooms! ” The luxury of it! A suite perhaps. 
Nan nodded, thinking how in keeping the vague 
46 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


fly-away speech was with the rest of Miss Burton, 
and how glad she was that the pattering, hesitant 
conversation permitted her to follow in silence. It 
gave her time for a swift approving glance around 
her. It was all there, just as she wanted it, vistas 
of big rooms, thick velvet rugs, polished surfaces, 
harmonious colors, golden gleams from a brass 
bowl or a mirror frame as sunlight slanted through 
a window. 

At the end of a long corridor, on the second 
floor, Miss Burton paused. 

“ The nursery is here, next to your living-room. 
In that way, you see, the two connect—and you 

can always keep in touch- Shall we stop here 

first or go on to your own ? ” 

“ The children are out? ” 

“ Yes—I believe—that is, I’m quite sure- 

Yes—they aren’t in the nursery.” 

“ Then let’s wait.” 

“ You will be happy here, I think.” Miss Burton 
opened a door into a room done in wicker and blue 
and tan chintz. A corner fireplace, filled book¬ 
cases and a perfectly appointed tea-wagon promised 
comfort on cold days. Next to this room was 
Nan’s dainty white bedroom and the tiled bathroom 
of her imagination. But what drew Nan like a 
magnet was a screened-in porch, opening off both 
47 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


her rooms and overlooking the garden and blue 
water beyond. 

“ What’s that?” Nan pointed to the stretch of 
sea. 

“ That’s the Sound, you know. Such a pretty 
view, don’t you think so? You will enjoy it, I’m 
sure—at least I hope so.” 

Nan stood silent, feasting her eyes. Suddenly 
she turned and flung her coat on the table stretch¬ 
ing her arms wide and high. 

“ Enjoy it? Oh, I shall love it, I know.” 

Miss Burton picked up Nan’s coat, folding it 
carefully and patting out wrinkles. 

“ You will find—difficulties, no doubt. Nothing 
is very easy, you know—earning your living, I 

mean- No matter how you choose to do it 

there are always people-” 

“All sorts and kinds,” Nan agreed, “but isn’t 
life just learning to get on with them? ” 

“Of course—that’s just it. Just what I was 
trying to say. But sometimes it’s so hard, when 
you don’t understand.” 

“Mr. Wilson told me about Bobby, Miss Bur¬ 
ton.” 

“ Yes—of course—I supposed he would. Bobby 
is—well, you probably know. And what you don’t 
you’ll find out. It wasn’t of him I was thinking. 

48 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Mr. Wilson himself is—well,—he’s had troubles, 
and that accounts—you must excuse him, my dear, 
if he—I’m very fond of him myself,” Miss Burton 
ended her struggle finally, laying down the much- 
folded coat at the same time. 

“ You have been here quite a while. Miss Bur¬ 
ton ? ” 

“ Oh, my yes,” she began shoving the magazines 
an inch or two. “ For years. I was here through 
it all—his wife’s death, I mean—so that’s how I 
know. I am a—a sort of distant relative—very 

distant-” she added this apologetically as 

though she had no right to belong. “At first I 
just lived here because—well, there didn’t seem to 
be any other place—but now of course I am house¬ 
keeper and—Mr. Wilson is a very good man.” 

His goodness seemed to stir little Miss Burton to 
her depths for she fumbled about for her handker¬ 
chief. Nan broke an awkward little silence. 

“ Who is with the children now, Miss Burton? ” 

“Agnes.” Miss Burton caught at her shawl. 
“ Agnes is the up-stairs maid—such a homely crea¬ 
ture—I’m really very sorry. But a thoroughly good 
servant and very good with the children. She 
seems to know how to avoid battles with Bob—she’s 
not very positive herself—that may be the reason. 
And of course it’s easy to get on with Shirley.” 

49 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I haven’t heard much about her.” 

“ A little sunbeam, Miss Carter, a real little sun¬ 
beam, so bright and—cunning. You’ll love her and 
she’ll give you no trouble, I’m sure. She’s always 
sweet—always.” 

“ Does Bobby love her?” Nan asked suddenly. 
They were sitting together in the swing, Nan’s 
hands clasping a crossed knee. Miss Burton’s tuck¬ 
ing in wisps of hair, catching at her slipping shawl 
and tugging down her skirt 

“ Why—I don’t know—I never thought. I sup¬ 
pose so. We never know, you see, what Bobby 
likes, but we always know what he doesn’t like.” 

“ Miss Burton,” Nan’s mind jumped to another 
subject, “is there anything troubling Mr. Wilson? 
I saw such a queer look in his face to-day. Is it 
worry about the children ? ” 

Miss Burton drew her shawl about her, lifted 
her hands to tuck in flying locks and clutched at 
the slipping shawl again. 

“ He is,—no, I wouldn’t say he’s in trouble, ex¬ 
actly. I think he’s out of it, myself. But he’s a 
splendid man—splendid—and too much alone. 
He’s dreadfully alone. Nobody ever comes to the 
house except a few business friends and he seldom 
goes away. It’s all wrong. He’s too young for 
such exclusion. I wish ”—she hesitated, pulled at 
50 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


her skirt, then finished the thought with a little gasp. 
—“ I do so wish someone could take him out of 
himself.” 

“ Is he still grieving over his wife's death, do 
you think ? ” 

“ Yes—no—I suppose that might be it, in a way.” 
Miss Burton clutched at a fact and landed it firmly 
before Nan. “ She was very beautiful, a most 
beautiful woman.” 

Running feet and voices in the hall interrupted 
them. 

“ The children. Miss Carter. Shall Agnes bring 
them in here ? Or will you-” 

Nan jumped to her feet in a sudden panic of 
excitement. 

“ Oh! I wanted to change my dress! Children 
love pretty things so, and I have a darling new one. 
Tell Agnes to take them into the nursery as usual 
and don't let them know I am here. I'll come in a 
minute. That's the door, isn't it? Thank you.” 

Miss Burton nodded and went out while Nan 
flew to her suitcase and with trembling fingers pulled 
out the straps. A brisk washing and rubbing, dex¬ 
terous flinging up of her golden hair into a coil 
at the nape of her neck, swift slipping into white 
silk stockings and pumps and the new pale green 
organdy frock and Nan stood ready. The hurry 
51 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and excitement had splashed her cheeks with crim¬ 
son. Her gray eyes had caught a reflection of her 
dress and shone like pools of water, beneath her 
black brows. The short hair, damp about her face, 
cuddled in tiny curls at her ears. Nan nodded in 
approval at the slim flowery appeal of her and then 
promptly forgot it. She thought about her looks 
only long enough to satisfy herself that they would 
do what she wanted. She herself liked the .contrast 
of her dark-fringed eyes with her golden hair but 
she was quite unaware of the appealing strangeness 
of it. Now with her mind intent on the children 
she slipped quickly to the nursery door, and heart 
beating hard, she stood a moment, listening to the 
prattle of Shirley's baby voice, then she opened it 
quietly and went in. 


52 




CHAPTER V 


Nan stood silent in the doorway undiscovered. 
In the middle of the big white sunlit room Bob rode 
a hobby horse silently, his square, straight back 
sturdily erect, his black hair brushed into a stiff 
pompadour, big-boy fashion, his profile sullen and 
uncompromising. Shirley, a winsome lass with 
red-gold locks, was on her knees on the floor before 
the wide red-bricked fireplace, busy hands skillfully 
piling up blocks in a “ bid high tower,” her small 
lissome body quivering in excitement as it wobbled 
and fell with a crash among the blocks and dolls 
and tracks that strewed the floor. 

“ Oh my! my! my! ” she cried with undiminish¬ 
ing emphasis, jumping up and whirling about on her 
toes, but coming to an abrupt standstill as she saw 
the strange person in the doorway. 

“Hello!” Nan said instantly, advancing toward 
the wee mite who stood poised like a fairy, her 
sunny hair clinging in curls about her eager face, 
her brown eyes wide with surprise. Shirley meas¬ 
ured Nan a half-second gravely, then her friendli¬ 
ness and fearlessness asserted themselves. 

“ Hayoo! ” she replied in her high sweet voice 
awaiting Nan’s next move. 

53 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“Do you know how to build a bridge?” Nan 
asked, sitting on the floor by the blocks and ignor¬ 
ing Bob who had swung about on his high hobby 
horse to face the intruder with a scowl. 

“ Bid a bidge,” Shirley repeated ecstatically. 

“ I’ll show you.” Nan began picking up the 
blocks and explaining each move. Shirley wrig¬ 
gled with impatient delight during the perform¬ 
ance; Bob watched silent and immobile from his 
horse. 

“ And now, it’s all done and we can make a train 
run right under it. Got a train, Bob ? ” she asked 
casually, without looking up. 

Bob looked down at this new person in doubt. 
So many new persons had come and gone. Bob 
always accepted them indifferently, ignored them 
until the moment came for asserting himself, then 
made himself felt with a power that usually brought 
quick results to him or to the person. But this new 
person was somehow different She was nice to 
look at for one thing, all sort of green and gold like 
outdoors, and she didn’t begin with kisses or or¬ 
ders. She didn’t seem to begin at all. It was as 
though she kept on from a beginning way back 
further than Bobby could remember. Anyhow he 
could find her a train if she wanted it, and the bridge 
was good. 


54 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


He climbed down and made his offering in si¬ 
lence. 

“Goody!” Nan cried, flashing a smile into the 
brown depths of the eyes so deliberately studying 
her. He was the image of his father, she thought, 
a little darker in coloring but with the same crisply 
waving hair, serious air and square resolute chin. 
“Now, how do you make it go? Does it wind 
up?” 

The business of running the train under the 
bridge was so absorbing that Agnes’s entrance was 
unnoticed by the children. Nan, looking up, sent 
a nod and friendly smile to the maid, thankful for 
the warning Miss Burton had given her. Never 
had she seen so homely a woman. But glowing 
through the ugly surface was a complete and serene 
selflessness; back of the wide, toothy smile was 
gentleness; shining out of small crossed eyes was 
an intense adoration for‘‘these children—all chil¬ 
dren. Agnes loved them with a beautiful love that 
asked nothing, that gave all, that was endlessly 
patient and sweet and unobtrusive. Nan understood 
why it was that Agnes filled in the gaps between 
the arrivals and departures of the “ pseudo¬ 
mothers.” 

“ She’s just made up of the odds and ends of 
things,” Nan thought. “ How do you do, Agnes? ” 
55 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


she said aloud. “ What time do the children have 
supper?” 

“ It's coming up now in a few minutes. Miss 
Carter, on the dumb waiter.” 

“ Oh! Then do let’s have a game of hide and 
seek until it gets here. Bobby and I, and you and 
Shirley. We’ll hide our eyes and count. Now 
hurry! ” 

“ Huwwy! ” echoed Shirley as she danced off to 
hide with Agnes in Nan’s room. 

“ It’s a hundred,” Bobby’s deep, husky voice 
spoke for the first time. “ I know where they are.” 

“ You didn’t peek, did you?” Nan was on her 
knees on the floor, her gray eyes looking levelly 
into his brown ones. 

“ Course not.” Scorn in a flashing glance. “ I 
know, ’cause they always hide there. Behind the 
swing on your porch.” 

Nan’s and Bobby’s turn to hide! Nan slipped a 
hand into the boy’s and whispered: 

“ You must know places better than I do. Take 
me!” 

Bobby nodded and they were off. Down the 
corridor they flew to a portiere hanging across a 
closed door. Small hands pushed Nan in, then the 
two stood breathing hard, pressed flat against the 
door. 


56 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I thought of this when you were counting.” 

“ It’s dandy, Bob.” 

Silence. 

“ I like this game.” 

“ So do I.” 

Silence again. 

“ I like to be called Bob better than Bobby.” 

“ IBs more grown-up,” Nan agreed understand- 
ingly. 

More silence. 

“ What's your name? ” 

“ Nan.” 

“ Not Miss anything? ” 

“ No, just Nan. Just as though I were a big 
sister, Bob.” 

Footsteps down the hall. 

“ Shall we ‘ boo' at them? Or let 'em find us? " 
Bob whispered. 

“ What do you think?” 

“ It's fun to boo. Shirley squeals so.” 

“ All right. Wait till I squeeze your hand, then 
we'll both boo and jump.” 

Bated breaths. Footsteps padding closer. Nan 
smiled in the dark at the tense little figure 
with indrawn breath saved for the tremendous 
boo! 

“ Now!” 


57 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


And they burst out upon Mr. Wilson walking 
rapidly toward the nursery. 

Bobby was more aghast than Nan. This father- 
man was nice. Bobby liked to lean against him and 
sniff the smoky odor that clung to his clothes, but 
he was a bit frightening. He didn’t say much, this 
father-man, and he didn’t do much, but if he ever 
did anything it was as though lightning had struck 
you. There was Miss Harris who whipped him. 
Father had just shot out his arm and Miss Harris 
had turned white and left the room and never came 
back. Evidently Nan didn’t know what a frighten¬ 
ing man Father could be, for she was laughing up 
at him, and at Shirley dancing down the hall and at 
Agnes who was crying—“ No fair. Out in the 
hall! No fair! ” 

When they were all in the nursery again, the 
dumb waiter was there and Agnes swiftly set a 
small table. Nan, busily tying on bibs, pouring out 
milk and sprinkling sugar, was only half aware of 
Mr. Wilson’s sinking into the great wing-chair close 
to the fireplace. 

“ Now here’s your spoon, Shirley-girly. You 
can feed yourself, can’t you?” 

Before the words were out of her mouth Shirley 
had flung the spoon across the room, and stiff with 
anger in her chair, shrieked: 

58 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Feed Tirley! Feed Tirley! ” 

Nan looked startled for a second. Agnes tried 
to convey a helpless and wordless sympathy. She 
had meant to warn Miss Carter of this one naughty 
trick of the little girl’s. Now it was too late, and 
Miss Carter’s first night too, and Mr. Wilson watch¬ 
ing like a hawk in the chair- 

“Can’t she feed herself yet?” Nan asked the 
maid. 

“ She can, Miss, but she won’t.” 

Nan rose quickly from her knees beside Shir¬ 
ley, picked up the spoon and brought it back 
smiling. 

“ See, Shirley,” she said. “ Nan will put this 
beautiful big ring on Shirley’s little thumb. Won t 
that be fine ? But you see it’s so big, it won’t stay 
on unless you hold the spoon too. There! Now 
take a bite and see how that big yellow stone spar¬ 
kles at you.” 

“ ’arkle at ’oo,” Shirley gurgled, delighted at the 
new word and the new toy, and happily unconscious 
of the trick played on her. 

“ Now hold your spoon tight,” Nan cautioned, 
“ or the ring will fall off.” 

Supper proceeded and was finished in grave con¬ 
templative silence on the part of Bob, in squeals of 
delight and constant chatter on the part of Shirley. 

59 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan was kept busy answering the insistent little mite 
who was exercising her vocabulary to its limit. In 
the intensity of her effort to understand the child, 
she utterly forgot Bruce Wilson, sunk in the shadow 
of the big chair, his grave eyes on the group at the 
wee table. 

“Now,” Nan untied bibs and wiped Shirley's 
mouth, “ what usually happens next, Bob ? ” 

“ Washed and put to bed,” briefly. 

“ Who puts the toys to bed ? ” Nan surveyed the 
cluttered room questioningly. 

“Agnes.” Bob moved indifferently toward the 
window. 

“But they aren't Agnes's toys. Why should 
she?” Nan queried pleasantly. “Supposing Shir¬ 
ley puts her dolls and blocks to bed on the window- 
seat over there; and supposing Bob puts his tracks 
and balls in this closet,—it's meant for just that, I 
see; and supposing Agnes and I move the big things 
back against the wall.” She began her part of the 
work as she talked. “ That would be fairer, I think, 
don't you, Bob, honestly ? ” 

Bob studied Nan’s face, puzzled. Was she mak¬ 
ing him be nice and neat? 

“ I don't want to,” he finally settled it, taking no 
chances, his mouth sullen, his feet stubbornly apart. 

“ Very well,” Nan agreed cheerfully. “ I hope I 
60 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


don’t stumble on them in the dark, though, and bend 
’em all out of shape. Thank you, Shirley. That’s 
a big help. Thanks, Agnes. I think we won’t need 
you any more to-night. Now, Shirley, if you’ll come 
out on my cool porch, I’ll tell you the story about 
Peter Rabbit’s going to sea. Peter Rabbit, you 
know, lived in a sand bank-” 

Nan was moving through the doorway, Shirley 
dancing behind her. Bob followed slowly. Stories 
had never been on the programme before. 

“ Sorry, Bob,” Nan smiled back at the hesitant 
figure, “ the story is just for Shirley. To-morrow 
night, if you want to help put the toys to bed you 
can hear one too.” 

At this Bobby threw himself flat on the floor and 
began beating his feet and shrieking at the top of 
his lungs. Nan gave him a backward glance, then 
went out into her room, shut the door and told 
Shirley the story on her porch. 

It was difficult business. Her mind was on the 
enraged boy whose screams penetrated through the 
partition. What should she do? How long ought 
she let him howl like that? How could she stop 
him anyway? Had Bruce Wilson gone? Mercy, 
he was working himself into a frenzy. She must 
do something. She finished her story hurriedly and 
with Shirley’s hand in hers went back into the 
61 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


nursery. At the door she met Bruce coming for 
her. 

“ There’s been enough of this, Miss Carter.” 

Nan looked past him to the convulsed figure on 
the floor. 

“ Do you forbid anything except whippings ? ” 

“ No.” 

Dropping Shirley’s hand Nan went swiftly into 
the bathroom and returned with a cup of water. 
She stood over Bob and between his shrieks made 
herself heard. 

“ Get up, Bob.” 

Bobby ceased his writhing long enough to eye the 
cup curiously. Then his yells burst forth afresh. 

Without another word Nan dashed the cup of 
water on the boy’s face. Spluttering he rose and 
Nan seized him in her strong young arms. 

“ That’ll be all,” she said quietly. “ You’re too 
big for this nonsense.” 

For a second they eyed each other, then Bob, with 
a sudden wrench, flung himself from Nan, picked 
up the cup and hurled it across the room. It fell 
on the hearthstone and broke into splinters. Bob 
commenced his screaming again. 

Nan suddenly felt her helplessness. She had 
hoped such an occurrence as this might be avoided 
until she had a hold on the boy’s heart, or at least 
62 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


until she had grown to know him better. But now 
it was working in the dark to guess what to do. 
She bit her lip, then turned to the wide-eyed Shirley. 

44 Come here, dear, Nan will undress you.” 

Agnes came to the door to say that Bruce was 
wanted on the telephone. Nan sighed with relief, 
then beckoned Agnes to her. 

“ What does make him stop finally? ” she asked. 

“ What have you had to do before? ” 

“ Give him his way, Miss. It’s the only thing. 
He wants the story you wouldn’t tell him.” 

Nan pressed her lips together and finished the 
undressing in silence. Agnes swept up the broken 
pieces of cup and left the room. Bobby screamed 
on. He was evidently equal to such noise as this 
for an unlimited length of time. His energy was 
unabated. Various tactics Nan tried after Shirley 
was tucked in her wee white bed were of no avail. 
She stood with tears of anger and mortification in 
her eyes, as Bruce reentered the room. 

He gave a swift look at the red face and wild 
eyes of the child. 

“ This has got to stop, Miss Carter. He’ll be ill. 
What are you going to do ? ” 

Nan picked up the boy. 

44 Bobby. Bobby-darling. Hush now, so Nan 
can tell you the story.” 


63 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Bobby subsided instantly. With his head on her 
shoulder as she sat in the low rocker, Nan began 
the Peter Rabbit tale for the second time. Her 
voice low and sweet soothed Bob whose sobs 
lessened gradually. Nan kept her eyes down, strug¬ 
gling to hide the shame she felt at her failure. 
Bruce left before she finished. 

Nan followed up the story with a quiet talk after 
Bobby lay in bed. He listened in stolid silence, ap¬ 
parently indifferent and unimpressed. Nan laid her 
lips to the dark head and went into her room. 

Failure. Flat and complete. She felt almost ill 
from her struggle. She walked up and down her 
little porch, clasping and unclasping her hands. She 
could not go on giving Bob his way. But how was 
she to battle with him? Would loving him do it? 
Would he, finally after weeks of patience and toler¬ 
ance and quiet explanation such as she had given 
him to-night, would he finally change his ways? 
In her heart Nan believed not. She was sure that 
the only way to succeed with Bob was to bend his 
will to hers once, through force, after that love and 
lots of it. 

But how exert force when that was just what 
was forbidden? Nan sighed and gave it up. She 
stood still resting her head against a pillar, her 
eyes on the darkening stretch of water before her. 

64 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Slowly peace and quiet came back to her, and with 
them a little reassurance. She could at least try. 
One disappointment need not mean ultimate failure. 
She had a month before her and somehow, some¬ 
way she would reach Bobby. 

There came a soft rap at her door. Dinner was 
served; was Miss Carter ready now ? 

Nan, in her pale green dress with its crisp ruf¬ 
fles of white at the neck and elbows, and a perky 
wide white sash that tied in a big bow, floated be¬ 
hind her like a large butterfly, moved quickly 
through the hall to the stairs. 

How still the house was! A faint little chill 
crept into her heart dulling the first fresh enthusi¬ 
asm she had felt for the loveliness here. She 
paused at the wide doorway of a big room and 
looked in. Silence, emptiness, exquisite perfection. 
There was no denying the beauty of Chinese rugs, 
of the richly carved woodwork that panelled the 
walls, of the choice paintings and hangings and 
lamps; but it lacked warmth, personal touches, the 
clutter of possessions to which she was so accus¬ 
tomed. She could not like seeing highly polished 
tables bare of books and magazines, chairs looking 
as though no person had ever “sat them soft,” 
round sofa pillows whose shapes were never dented 
by warm young heads or vigorous fists, mantels 
65 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


without vases,—gifts out of taste, perhaps, but ex¬ 
pressing a certain cordiality and friendliness. 

She moved across the hall to another room, ap¬ 
parently the music room. It, too, was very big, 
very still and very polished. Nan suddenly felt 
small and lonely. Why, it was no home at all. It 
was just a house! It was like a—like—a beautiful 
dead face, she thought. Her mind raced back ea¬ 
gerly to the cosy nursery where baby shoes lay 
awry on the floor, baby socks sprawled on a chair, 
and little clothes fluttered in the soft night breeze. 
That room and hers—were lived in. But this, some¬ 
how, was just to look at. 

Nan's mind raced back upstairs and grew warm 
while her body followed the butler to the dining¬ 
room and grew cold. She seated herself in the great 
carved chair at one end of the long oblong table set 
for one and childishly swung her feet. Then in 
horrified amazement at herself she stopped them 
and curled them about the legs of the chair. 
Mercy! That was no better. Her skirts were so 
short the butler couldn't help but see the tipped 
white heels as he passed behind her. What did one 
do with too-short legs? Just let them hang and 
go to sleep? Well, hang then. But this was her 
last meal in this awful dining-room, that was one 
thing certain. She couldn't stand the sombre 
66 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


brownness, its queer lights glowing from under or 
behind figures that were set up on a rail above the 
panels. She supposed everything here was perfect 
in its Italian detail. She grudgingly admitted the 
beauty of the tan rug with its dull blue border, of 
the chairs so solid and simple in line, with their 
upholstered blue seats, of the rare silver service that 
stood on—one wouldn’t call it a buffet, but it served 
that purpose. 

“ Has Miss Burton eaten—dined—yet? ” Her 
voice sounded small and timid in the silence. 

“ Yes, Madam. She eats in her room.” 

Nan’s cold hands clutched under her napkin. It 
was this automaton that was spoiling things. Was 
it proper or wasn’t it to talk to him? It probably 
wasn’t, but he was human and she was human and 
she bet a cooky he’d like it as well as she would. 
Anyway one leg was sound asleep and she had to 
move. 

He stood beside her, bending deferentially. Nan 
looked up suddenly. 

“ Perkins, this dull light is making me awfully 
lonesome. Can’t you find some candles somewhere 
and put them on the table? ” 

“ Candles, ma’am? Yes, ma’am, certainly.” 

Perkins disappeared. Nan heaved a sigh and 
plumped both elbows on the table. 

67 




THE DBAR PRETENDER 


“ He's as bad as the sofa pillows. Never a dent. 
Wonder if I'll have time to run around the table 
and get the feel in my legs again ? " 

Nan caught her breath, slid cautiously down out 
of her chair, harked a moment, then limping, began 
a promenade about the room. Around and around 
she went, faster and faster, with the limp going as 
her leg awoke. Suddenly she halted face to face 
with the silent-footed Perkins. 

“ Oh! " Nan gasped. “ How did you get here ? 
I mean, thank you, Perkins, that's very nice. Put 
them right on the table and light them all. Isn't 
that better? " 

“ Yes, ma'am, it is.” 

Nan, back in her chair with two legs awake, 
brightened by the cheerful glow of six white can¬ 
dles, was herself again. 

“ Perkins, doesn't Mr. Wilson ever eat? ” 

“Yes, ma'am, but always in his den, Madam. 

He-” Perkins became confidential at last. 

Nan leaned to the lowered tones, not for gossip's 
sake, but for the pure human friendliness of it. 
“ He hasn't had a meal in this room since Mrs. 
Wilson died. Madam." 

“ Oh!" 

Perkins beside Nan, bending over a silver platter, 
lifted its cover. 


68 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“No, thank you, Perkins, not any more. Not 
any more of anything. It was a wonderful dinner, 
but I’m not used to such big ones and I’m crowded 
now. Will you please show me where Mr. Wilson’s 
den is? ” 

Slim and girlish in her flowery summer frock, 
she knocked at the closed door of the den. Her 
heart was beating hard, pumping a scarlet color up 
to her cheeks and darkening her bright eyes. 

“ Come in,” Mr. Wilson’s quiet, courteous voice 
and Mr. Wilson quiet and courteous himself ushered 
Nan into the den. Ah! This was a room! This 
was his home, not the rest of the great house. Its 
deep leather chairs, shaded lights, low tables, spelled 
comfort and taste but they spelled the owner too. 
There were flowers here, open books and maga¬ 
zines, a cigar stand, with its tray half filled, a pale 
ring of smoke still in the air. The windows were 
wide to the dark night and a fragrance from the 
garden drifted in. Nan’s eyes lightened appre¬ 
ciatively. 

Bruce indicated a chair. 

“ You have come to tender your resignation so 
soon ? ” he queried smiling. 

Nan caught a sharp breath, her chin lifted. 

“ No.” She paused. His easy doubt of her made 
things difficult for her. But she must say what she 
69 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


had come to say, must get what help she could. 
“ No, I’m disappointed, but not discouraged. But 
I wondered if you could give me some advice? 
Bobby and I are so new to each other. What else 
could I have done? What way was there to stop 
him without giving him the story I had taken away 
in punishment? ” 

Bruce took a chair opposite Nan, settled back in 
it and reached for his pipe. “ May I ? ” he asked, 
and Nan nodded. 

“ I don’t know,” he made answer finally. “I 
hoped you would.” He lit his pipe and concluded 
unhelpfully: “ You see, Miss Carter, it is going to 
be difficult.” 

“Yes, I see.” This wasn’t what she had ex¬ 
pected. Bruce’s attitude was that of one unre¬ 
lated to the matter. In some hope and more skep¬ 
ticism he was standing apart watching her manoeu¬ 
vres. Was he leaving the situation entirely in her 
hands? she asked. He agreed that he was. Nan 
fell into a thoughtful silence. 

“ Poor little laddie,” she said at last softly. 
“ He’s having a miserable time, don’t you know he 
is? All at odds with a world that should be beau¬ 
tiful now, if it’s ever to be. But there must be 
some way to get into his heart,” she mused. 

“ You suggested a way this afternoon.” 

70 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Loving, you mean. Yes, I know.” Nan 
squared her shoulders ever so slightly. “ Well, if 
loving will do it,—open his nature—I’ll pry it open 
—sometime.” 

A cloud of smoke went up between them, through 
it came his words casually: 

“ Love is supposed to work miracles.” 

Was there some hidden cynicism here? Nan did 
not know, but something warm and responsive in 
her withdrew. That impression of his remoteness, 
of his amused tolerance for her and her efforts to 
win Bob, struck upon her again. But he was not 
removed from the struggle. It was his too, in a 
wa y—or should be. And under his amusement was 
deep concern, that she knew. However, he was not 
going to give her any help. Possibly he was really 
unable. The best he could do in the way of explicit 
counsel was to forbid corporal punishment. She 
must work the thing out herself, in spite of him. 
She rose rather abruptly. 

“ I came to ask you if I might—if it would make 
any difference if I had my meals in my room? ” 

He rose too, indifferently polite. Nan's expla¬ 
nation became slightly hurried in the breathless lit¬ 
tle-girl way she sometimes had of talking. 

“ Your dining-room is lovely and Perkins served 
me beautifully, and everything is just as it should 
71 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


be, but—you know I'm not used to big, lonesome 
places—and—and—not talking to people because it's 
not proper. So, if I could just have my meals in 
my room—or better yet! ” her slight nervousness 
left her. “ Let me eat with the children. I'd just 
as soon have cereal and milk as a dinner, truly I 
would. I was brought up to it anyway.” 

In the circle of light from a standing lamp, she 
looked white and tired for all her gay little dress 
and eager tumbling words. His voice and face 
softened insensibly. 

“ Why, certainly, Miss Carter. Have your meals 
in your room if you prefer. Miss Burton does, and 
the dining-room is gloomy.” 

“ Thank you.” 

She started to go. 

“ What did you think of my little girl ? ” 

“ Oh, she’s a darling.” A quick smile lit Nan's 
face. “ She's a wonderful child, I think, truly. 
There is a rare sweetness about her, and some¬ 
thing unusually vivid too.” 

He nodded. 

“ Her little tantrum to-night-” 

“ Was funny, wasn’t it? ” 

“ You handled it most capably.” 

Nan was grateful for the praise. It was good to 
know she had succeeded in a small measure at any 
72 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


rate in what she had attempted. Here, in this lived- 
in room with Bruce for the moment sincerely kind, 
a glow of friendliness flooded her. She spoke im¬ 
pulsively. 

“ Oh! I am glad to be here. I really was never 
before quite so glad to be alive.” 

“ I didn’t know anyone felt that way these days, 
what with Freud and the rest of them turning us 
inside out.” 

He spoke whimsically enough but Nan felt that 
his smile masked a belief in his words. 

“ Oh, but aren’t you?” Her amazement was 
genuine. How could this man not be tingling with 
the joy of life with all that he had? 

He gave a short laugh. 

“ Life isn’t—when you get living it—as pleasant 
as you have fancied it would be.” 

“ Of course,” Nan admitted. “ At times. But 
at those times you have to pretend.” 

He shook his head. 

“ I never could see the use in that.” 

Oh, but there was use, a great deal of use, she 
contended, turning sharply back to him. Why, if 
one didn’t pretend, the hard times would be un¬ 
bearable and all those around you would feel your 
unhappiness, would in turn be saddened by it, and 
what right did you have to do that ? 

73 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


But pretence was falsity, and that was one thing 
unendurable to him. He had never known it to 
bring anything but unhappiness in the end. Besides 
when you pretended, you were just shutting your 
eyes to things. Sometime you would have to open 
them, and the things would still be there, unmoved, 
unchanged, for all your pretending. What was 
the use ? 

Smiling he waited her answer. She puzzled for 
it, laughed, and finally gave it up. 

“ Maybe sometime I can show you what I mean,” 
she said. “ Good-night/’ 

She left him, wondering about him. Miss Bur¬ 
ton’s unfinished sentences came back to her. He 
was unhappy. Something had happened in his life, 
something that had turned him bitter. 

She was still thinking of him when she reached 
her room and with some annoyance she shrugged 
thoughts of him from her. He was not her prob¬ 
lem. Bobby was, and he was promising to be one 
that would take the best of her time and thought. 
Bruce would have to solve his own difficulties. 


74 




CHAPTER VI 


Summer did not seem like summer here, in this 
cool, spacious house where there was always shade 
when one wanted it, almost always a breeze, always 
peace and quiet. And with the added luxuries of 
shower baths, ice cold drinks and exquisitely laun¬ 
dered clothes, summer became not only endurable, 
but enjoyable. 

Nan and the children romped through the days 
gaily. Nan took especial care to avoid coming to 
an issue with Bob. She tolerated much rather than 
arrive at the point of conflict with him until she was 
sure of a hold on his affections. She discovered that 
he had a rather ponderous mind, one moving slowly 
but with a steam-roller weight of precision. He was 
not to be swerved. He regarded everything;—new 
food, clothes, people and places,—with a monu¬ 
mental calm from all angles. Then he accepted or 
rejected them with unmoved finality. Nan wanted 
him to have accepted her before she took her next 
stand against him. 

Two weeks slipped away, two sunlit weeks in 
which the days were all much alike. Nan sprang 
from her bed at six-thirty and in her blue wrapper 
75 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and slippers, she went into the nursery where Bob 
and Shirley were prattling. Stories and dressing 
proceeded. Then breakfast, superintended by Agnes 
while Nan dressed, then Nan’s own delicious meal 
served on her sleeping porch, with Shirley and Bob 
engaging companions. Followed glorious hours out 
of doors, always a swim at eleven—if the boisterous 
splashing of the three might be called that—dinner 
and naps. 

While the children were asleep Nan had her lunch 
in her room or on the balcony again. These two 
hours she loved, for it was her time for letter writ¬ 
ing, for reading, for sewing, for long pondering 
upon Bobby-boy, smiling reminiscences of Shirley. 
Sometimes Miss Burton and she lunched together, 
but more often Nan chose to be alone. 

At three there were fresh, clean clothes, much 
brushing of lovely curls, and tying of flying ribbons, 
a cup of milk and a cracker apiece—then heigho! 
for the sunshine and shadows again. 

With dusk there came always a little weariness 
and irritability. Nan rose triumphantly to this try¬ 
ing hour. She had a fund of stories, a low sweet 
voice for lullabies and a genius for invention of 
games. Washing and supper over, and warm, tired 
little bodies buttoned into night clothes, Nan some¬ 
how scrunched them both into her small lap and 
76 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


rocked them a while. But if she failed to give 
them space enough she never failed to give them 
love enough and the tenderness of her arms and 
fresh fragrance of her kisses kept them still. 

It was so that Wilson often found them. He had 
formed the habit of coming to the nursery as soon 
as he reached home from the office, for it was the 
only time he had to see the children and to study 
Nan with them. Nan always gave him a smile of 
welcome, then went on with her song or her story. 
He would slip into the shadow of the winged chair 
and listen, watching with a little pain in his grave 
eyes that the dusk and Nan's own absorption kept 
her from discovering. When she had finished, 
Shirley always scampered to Dad, Bob hung about 
stiff and silent, and Nan disappeared to her room 
until he had gone. 

If he came earlier at the bib-tying, supper-munch¬ 
ing time, Agnes was usually on hand and Nan after 
a word or two with her would go away sooner. 
She never came back until she heard him say good¬ 
night and the quick shutting of the nursery door 
behind him. 

She had just returned to the children one evening 
and was sitting on the floor tinkling the wee piano, 
making a game of putting the toys away. In vig¬ 
orous rhythmic swing Bob and Shirley with their 
77 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


animals and toys marched repeatedly to the closet 
■until the last one was tucked away for the night. 
When the game was over, Nan jumped up to dis¬ 
cover Bruce in the doorway. 

“ Here’s Daddy, children.” 

Shirley obediently gave him the kiss, which Nan 
had taught her was wanted, but Bob remained in 
the middle of the floor, indifferent and unresponsive 
to his father’s greeting. 

“ You can’t go away till you’ve told us the story,” 
he reminded Nan, with a bare glance in his father’s 
direction. 

“ I’m not going to, Bob.” 

Nan took the low rocker. Shirley clambered into 
her lap. Bob dropped on the floor beside her. The 
little man and the big man in his winged chair, kept 
silent but Shirley’s interruptions were constant. 
Finally Nan jumped to the end. 

“And when Peter Rabbit at last got home, he 
was so tired and so ashamed his mother just tum¬ 
bled him into bed without a word! And now, you 
little wiggle-twister, I’m going to tumble you into 
bed.” 

“ Wiggle-tister,” Shirley giggled. 

During the business of undressing and washing . 
Bruce was called to the telephone. He reached the 
nursery door again just as Nan suggested prayers. 

78 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Unobserved he stood in the doorway of the hall, 
looking into the lamplit room. 

“ I say mine to myself,” Bob announced march¬ 
ing to his bed and kneeling in silence. Nan smiled 
at the independence of the youngster, then held out 
her arms to Shirley who leaped to her lap and knelt 
with folded hands and eyes dancing with mirth. It 
was a new institution, explained that day. 

“ Shut your eyes.” 

Shirley squinted obediently. 

“ Suppose you just say, * God bless Daddy/ ” 

“ Dod b’ess Daddy,” Shirley giggled, peeping 
through locked fingers. “ I see you! ” 

“ You darling.” 

Nan's lips were hungry. They swept over the 
baby face and down in her neck and Shirley was 
finally tumbled into bed, shrieking with laughter. 
Nan tucked in the sheet and moved over to Bob 
who was stretched silent and grave on his pillow. 
Except for that first night when she had kissed his 
hair, Nan had never done more than lay a loving 
hand on him at parting. 

“ Like kissing? ” 

“ Not much.” 

“ All right; good-night, Bob.” 

She had turned out the light and reached her 
door when a husky voice followed her. 

79 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Sometimes I don't mind.” 

In the darkness Bruce heard the rustle of Nan's 
dress as she moved quickly back to Bob's bed, then 
a low voice thrilling with understanding for a lonely 
boy. 

“ Good-night, Bob. Thanks.” 

It was soon after that that Nan first dared oppose 
Bob. He refused to leave the water when it was 
time. Nan called him as usual, pleasantly, but she 
might as well have summoned the butterflies and 
the bees. Bob, splashing serenely in the water, had 
assumed the deafness, the dumbness and the blind¬ 
ness of the dead. Three times Nan called, then she 
moved so swiftly upon Bob that he didn't know 
what had happened until he found himself being 
marched toward the bathhouse. 

Suddenly he slumped in her arms to the sand 
and lay there eying Nan with the familiar gleam 
of battle in his eyes. Nan took the rope from the 
rowboat and tied Bob to a log firmly embedded in 
the sand. 

“ Now, Bob,” she said quietly. “ You are out 
of the water. And you will stay out. To-day and 
to-morrow and the next day. If you don’t want 
to get dressed, you needn't. That isn't the impor¬ 
tant thing.” 

Then she disappeared in her bathhouse. 

80 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Bob, of course, went instantly into a rage. Nan, 
peering through a knot-hole, wondered about the 
rope. But the rope was apparently siding with Nan. 
It held. The sand also was siding with Nan, for 
it flew. With every frantic dig and twist of Bobby's 
body it covered him, finally landing in his mouth 
and eyes. Then his yells changed tune. Nan went 
to him instantly, untied him, washed out the sand 
and said nothing. Bob had punished himself and 
he knew it. 

In some doubt Nan waited for the next day's 
swimming hour. But Bob had his pride. Nothing 
was suggested and nothing asked. He ignored 
Shirley and Nan in the water and busied himself 
digging in the sand. Nan rightfully felt somewhat 
encouraged, although she acknowledged that cir¬ 
cumstances had helped her win this time. It was 
not a clear-cut victory for her alone. 

Nan was just leaving the nursery a few nights 
later as Bruce entered. 

“ Miss Carter." 

Nan paused in the doorway of her room. 

“ Yes?” 

“ May I see you for a few moments this even¬ 
ing?” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Wilson. After dinner? ” 

“ Yes.” 


81 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan wondered, as she came back after his de¬ 
parture and was undressing the children, what this 
summons could mean. Her month of trial was not 
yet over and she was vaguely disturbed. However, 
in slipping off exquisite clothes, kissing plump pink 
and white little bodies, washing dimpled hands and 
faces. Nan forgot the fear in the exultant thrills 
that ran through her. There was nothing so dear 
doing as baby caring, she thought, and when they 
knelt beside her,—Bob sometimes condescended 
-—black head and golden head bent in short lisped 
prayer, she suddenly flung her own back with the 
swift uprushing flood of joy that was such a 
pain. 

“ Mine.—As much as though they really were! ” 
her heart cried fiercely. “ Mine! ” 

“All thoo!” Shirley’s bright gaze met Nan’s. 
Bobby rose in his dignified manly way. Nan slipped 
an arm about each and held them there. 

“ Anybody got a kiss for Nan? ” she asked softly. 

Shirley’s adorable face was instantly thrust for¬ 
ward, then she wriggled away from the restraining 
embrace and leaped into her bed. Nan was left 
looking deep into Bobby’s serious brown eyes. For 
a long minute she gazed steadily. Suddenly across 
her face slipped a smile, compelling in its utter 
sweetness. Bobby heaved a sigh and leaned closer. 

82 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Bobby-boy, I like you,” Nan whispered. 

Bobby’s grave eyes still met hers. Then in his 
slow deliberate way he carefully pressed a velvet 
cheek against her lips, drew away and walked se¬ 
dately to bed. 

It was his first voluntary offering. Nan had 
pierced the crust of the lad’s reserve with her own 
sure gentle touch and she went down to Mr. Wilson 
happy. 

The door stood open. Bruce was at his desk, 
papers spread before him, his head sunk in his two 
hands. Except for the one light on his desk the 
room was in soft darkness, only the white curtains 
showing vaguely as they fluttered in the breeze. Nan 
paused. 

“ Shall I come in ? ” 

Bruce rose quickly. 

“ Oh, do.” 

Nan took the proffered chair and sat waiting 
silently. Bruce had gone over to the window and 
deliberately lit a pipe. Nan watched it brighten and 
glow and still waited. In the quiet of the room the 
clock and her heart seemed to be having a race. 
Why didn’t he speak? Was he trying to tell her 
gently that she was a failure? She hadn’t really 
believed the interview meant that but the silence 
became terrifying. Her throat was getting dry and 
83 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


if he ever should speak, she knew she couldn’t an^ 
swer. She folded her hands tightly in her lap to 
hide their trembling. 

“ Why do you always leave the nursery as soon 
as you can after I come. Miss Carter ? ” 

“ Why-” Nan breathed again. “ I supposed 

you would like a little time alone with your chil¬ 
dren.” 

“ Is that the reason, really ? ” 

A flush stained Nan’s cheeks, spreading down to 
her neck. It wasn’t of course, but how ungracious 
and childish it would sound for her to tell him she 
didn’t like men. He was no exception. And she 
wanted to keep away. She would have to explain 
that, in order not to be rude, and that would lead 
to revelations about her father, and her family 
life- 

“ Yes, that’s the reason,” she replied. 

Bruce settled himself in a deep chair in the 
shadows. 

“ Shirley is natural enough with me. She 
would be with anyone. But Bob stiffens up the 
moment you go away. I can’t get anything out of 
him.” 

“ He’s afraid of you, Mr. Wilson,” Nan said 
promptly. “ You are, you know,” she smiled, 
“ rather a forbidding person. I should be afraid 
84 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


myself if I were four instead of nearly twenty- 
four.” 

“ How can I help it ? ” helplessly. 

For a second Nan wanted to laugh, it seemed so 
ridiculous for this capable, self-sufficient man to be 
asking her advice like a little boy. But the next 
instant Nan realized that Bruce felt the lack of 
comradeliness between himself and his son, wanted 
to create it in these early days, because of a loneli¬ 
ness of spirit or a sense of duty—she wasn't sure 
which—and was at a loss how to begin. If this was 
what he had called her down for, she must give him 
her best help. 

She sat forward, hands clasping her knee, her 
eyes intent with thought. 

“ I think, Mr. Wilson,” she began, “ you don’t 
play enough. If you could only—only—kick up 
your heels,” in all earnestness, “ turn somersaults, 
play leap-frog,—anything like that—don’t you see? 
Couldn’t you ? ” she ended seriously. 

For a second there was a silence, then came a 
chuckle from the window. Nan joined it. The 
mental picture of this tall, sedate man inverted— 
upset—curling over himself, had broken the ice be¬ 
tween them. 

“ I think I’d better practice in my room,” he said. 
“ But—I really believe I could.” 

85 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


The boyishness in his voice surprised Nan. She 
leaned forward trying to see through the dusk of 
the room to his face. One could almost fancy a 
twinkle lurking in the depths of his eyes when he 
spoke like that. 

“Try it!” she dared. “Bob will unbend too. 
See if he doesn't. You would really be more suc¬ 
cessful,” she added thoughtfully, “ if your somer¬ 
sault didn’t sault—if it flopped, you know! ” 

“ Thank you, Miss Carter.” Bruce’s dignity re¬ 
turned but there had been those few moments of 
light-hearted laughter between them. Never again 
would the formality be the same. “ That’s a diffi¬ 
cult prescription you’ve given to remedy the trou¬ 
ble. My playing days seem a long way back. But 
to get back to the reason I called you down here. 
I appreciate your feeling about leaving me alone 
with my children. However, I wish you wouldn’t, 
because Bob does shut himself up with me. I can 
come to know him better when I see him with you— 
until I learn to turn somersaults—and I want to 
know him. And because too, Miss Carter, I—you 
must realize I want to see you with my children. 
Their reaction to you. Yours to them. You re¬ 
member that this month is to be a probation period.” 

At the look of alarm that leaped to Nan’s eyes 
Bruce went on quickly: 

86 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I am perfectly satisfied with all that I have seen* 
Rest assured on that, Miss Carter. But I have really 
seen very little. You understand, of course.” 

This led quite naturally to Nan’s telling him about 
her first battle with Bob, and the kiss he had given 
her this evening. 

“ You are beginning to prove my theory, Miss 
Carter.” 

“That whippings are unnecessary, you mean?” 

He nodded. 

Nan pointed out that the circumstance of the 
sand filling Bob’s eyes had helped her. She added 
that she had a feeling that their Waterloo had not 
yet been fought. 

“ Sometime it’ll be just Bob and I, a battle be¬ 
tween the two of us.” 

“ After that? ” 

“After that—if I win—Bob will give me his 
love and trust.” 

“ And some day some other woman will destroy 
that fine faith.” 

“ Not in me,” Nan denied quickly. “ Bob can 
always count on me.” 

His lazy smile gave her the doubt. Nan flushed 
under it and cried out a little angrily: 

“ Because some one person has disappointed you, 
is it fair to conclude that everyone will ? ” 

87 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Sooner or later they do, don’t they ? ” 

“ Not people you know. Not people you believe 
in!” Nan suddenly stopped, remembering her 
father’s bitter disappointment in the man whom he 
had called a friend. 

“ It’s never happened to you directly,” the man 
observed. 

“ No.” Nan hunted for words to express her¬ 
self clearly. “ But if it ever did, I shouldn’t let it— 
it shouldn’t discolor my whole life.” 

“ That’s easy to say.” 

“ But it can be done! ” Nan leaned toward him 
in her eagerness to carry this thought to Bruce. 
“ My father—didn’t I see his life wrecked—his 
future and his dream smashed to bits—because 
someone he counted on failed him? And he—why 
do you know ?—after the first hurt he insisted there 
was a mistake, a misunderstanding. His faith was 
wonderful.” 

“ Beautiful, no doubt, but blind. He was shut¬ 
ting his eyes—pretending.” 

“ Maybe he was. But that, you see, is what I 
mean. His pretending—if it was that, I don’t be¬ 
lieve it was—kept life from being ugly for the rest 
of us.” 

Bruce shrugged, smiling, and Nan sat back dis¬ 
couraged. She could not impress this man with her 
88 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


beliefs. He was set solidly, one way. Had he 
always been so? Nan believed not! But until 
something or somebody undid what was done, she 
was rushing against a stone wall. 

With some effort, the conversation shifted. Nan, 
recalling the evening, could not exactly remember 
how they slipped so easily into discussion of books, 
music and distant places. Rather was it a mono¬ 
logue than a discussion, for Nan was empty of such 
knowledge and Bruce was apparently full of it. He 
came out of the shadowy dusk to bring forth pic¬ 
tures, to pull down books from the cases about his 
walls, to point out and explain a loved etching on the 
mantelpiece over the fireplace. He talked easily, 
with interest and without arrogance, and Nan came 
away with a spirit eager for far journeyings, eyes 
lightened with dreams of it, and a heart of wonder 
that she had so enjoyed herself for two solid hours 
with a hated man. 

After that Nan did not leave the nursery when 
Bruce came there at dusk time. She stayed on, but 
she sank into the background. She was natural* 
but determinedly unobtrusive. This hour was the 
father’s and he should have it. He was, of neces¬ 
sity, pushed out of the shadows of the wing-chair 
and made to stand before the footlights. It was 
Nan’s turn to observe and with a sinking heart she 
89 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


saw his painful and useless efforts to make a place 
for himself in his son’s heart, to open his own mind 
and heart to the boy. Self-consciousness kept him 
stiff while the child could not sense the situation to 
the slightest degree. He answered in monosyllables; 
suggestions were received in unruffled calm; correc¬ 
tions in a silence that had an atmosphere of inner 
rebellion. As for playing,—it simply couldn’t be 
done. Once—oh, that once!—Bruce Wilson got 
down on his hands and knees to play bear. Shirley 
regarded him with startled eyes, then ran for a 
pillow. 

“ Is Daddy sick?” she asked in the softest and 
most pitying of baby voices. 

Bob stood and stared. 

“ You look queer,” he remarked and moved to 
his hobby horse. 

Nan rushed from the background to the fore¬ 
ground with laughter in her throat and sympathy 
in her eyes. But that was Bruce’s last attempt to 
“ kick up his heels.” 

At the end of the month Nan was again sum¬ 
moned to the den and engaged to remain for an in¬ 
definite period. Her spirit took wings. She saw 
herself settled for life, visiting Shirley at college, 
chaperoning Bob’s parties- It was all too de¬ 

lightful and too easy to make dreams come true. 

90 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Starry-eyed, vibrant with joy, she stood before 
Bruce and told him so. He smiled down at her out 
of grave eyes. 

“ I am happy that you are, Miss Carter,” he said 
simply. “ I only hope you won’t wake up to find 
your dream—a dream.” 

“ But I’m awake now—and living it! ” she cried. 
“ You don’t believe that, do you? ” 

He shook his head. “We never wake up till the 
dreams are over,” he said and then changed the sub¬ 
ject swiftly. “ There’s another thing, Miss Carter. 
Do you think Bob will be ready to go to school this 
fall?” 

Nan grew troubled. 

“ He’ll be five, won’t he? Yes, he’s old enough, 
but oh! Mr. Wilson, don’t send him! ” 

“ And why, please ? ” 

“ Oh, because-” Nan struggled with her 

thought “ So many teachers don’t care about 
teaching children anything but things. They never 
teach them thinks. Do you see ? And Bob’s been 
two and a half years without a mother to teach 
him. He’s really not ready—if you know what I 
mean.” 

“ I think I do.” 

“ I’d like another winter with him, please, Mr. 
Wilson,” Nan told him earnestly, her eyes as be- 
91 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


seeching as her voice. “ Maybe by then we'll be all 
caught up with the years. I'll start a kindergarten 
myself, if you want,” she suggested. 

Bruce contemplated the girl before him. His 
grave, deliberate regard annoyed her. He was still 
studying her! He didn't believe in her sincerity, in 
her honest desire to get the best out of Bob. Here 
she was, sparing no thought, no effort, no love— 
giving them all eagerly, gladly,—and he looked as 
though he thought she were playing a game. 

“ I really would like to do that,” she said simply. 
“ Please believe it.” 

“ I'm trying to, but it’s so surprisingly selfless of 
you.” 

“ It's not selfless at all. It’s honest. I'm not 
half earning my salary for one thing. And I'm 
just selfish enough to want to make you proud of 
Bob, then I'll take the credit. Please let me! ” 

“ You're more than earning it, Miss Carter,” he 
corrected with that courteous gentleness of his. 
“ However, if you care to assume another task, I 
think it would be an excellent idea.” 

Nan came away satisfied yet with a sense of baffle¬ 
ment. She had won her way. Bruce had proved 
that by engaging her to stay on, by permitting her to 
teach Bob. But she had not yet won Bruce's con¬ 
fidence. He was—he was—Nan puzzled over it. 

92 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Suspicious of her—that was it. He acted as 
though he thought she were after something other 
than the joy of doing a loved piece of work, and 
her money honestly earned. He questioned her 
dream too—laughed at it, probably. Because he 
had ceased to dream. Oh well, what did it matter 
what he thought? 

Here she was and here she’d stay and fiddlesticks! 
for Bruce Wilson’s notions about her. She didn’t 
care. For that matter she was suspicious of him. 
No man could be as nice as he apparently was at 
home without being villainously villainly at his 
office to make up for it. Pooh! anyhow. 


93 




CHAPTER VII 


There was a lily-filled pond in the shade of 
great elms at the rear of the big house. To this 
almost every afternoon came Nan and the two chil¬ 
dren. There were fishes darting about in the cool 
clear depths of this miniature lake; pop-eyed panting 
frogs, and queer little turtles were to be found along 
the grassy banks. There was too, a boat, wide and 
clean and comfortable with cushions, if you wished 
to go out and peer into the homes of the fairies in 
the hope of catching one napping. But though the 
lilies, floating serenely on their green foundations, 
were always there, nodding a welcome to you, the 
fairies never were. You just had to believe they 
flew there in the gloaming, cuddled deep in the 
curve of petals, and were swung to sleep in the 
breezes. 

You might possibly catch the fairies in their lily 
homes, or you might catch them in the Magic Ring. 
There was always the choice, difficult of settlement; 
always the thrilling chance of being lucky after the 
choice had been made. Bob favored the lilies be¬ 
cause of the necessity of a voyage in the boat. 
Shirley favored the Magic Ring. 

The Magic Ring, as of course you know, is a 
94 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


circle of fine soft grass, often to be found under big 
trees at the edge of just such a pool as this one 
that lay to the right of the flower-scented garden. 
No one knows why the grass is finer here, but the 
fact of its being danced over by fairy feet on moon¬ 
light nights at the stroke of twelve, is never to be 
questioned. Once Shirley found a wee red cap. 
It fitted over her littlest finger and in its exact centre 
was a tiny bell. It might have dropped from a 
fairy head. Nan didn’t say it did, but then— 
neither did she say it didn’t. 

At any rate, believing in fairies made the world 
lovelier and the days much more full of possible 
surprises, and Nan of the believing heart and the 
eyes wide with dear fancies, came into the hearts of 
her children because she could so surely and sweetly 
“ pretend.” 

It was a day in early August, a day all shimmer¬ 
ing with the gold of the sun. Shade from the trees 
lay mottled dark on the grass. Phlox, dripping its 
multicolored petals, flung a tender fragrance over 
the border of hedge about the garden close by. 
Bubbles floated from black depths to the surface of 
the water and burst with a noiseless pop, ringing a 
tiny widening ripple to the shore. 

In the Magic Circle sat Shirley and Bob and Nan. 
The hot day was temperish and Nan looked from 
95 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Shirley's red face to Bob's scowling dark one. A 
quarrel seemed imminent. 

“ I tell you what," she cried suddenly, and at the 
mere sound of her voice scowl and threatening tears 
vanished. “ Let’s pull off our shoes and stockings 
and stick our feet in the water! " 

The swim of the day being over, and the children 
dressed clean, this was indeed an occasion. It 
smacked of holidayness, almost of disobedience. 
Only disobeying this way was sure to be unmitigated 
fun, for the punisher was naughty too! 

Off came Nan’s shoes and stockings, first of all, 
and into the cool water slid three pairs of white 
feet. 

“No splashing, Bob, because I really don't want 
you to get your clothes wet.” 

“No 'pashin'," Shirley repeated. “Oh! Heah 
come Daddy!" 

He was not only coming. He was there. Nan 
turned her head to see the man in his white suit not 
six paces behind her in the centre of the Magic 
Ring. Well, he could see what he could see, and 
if it didn't bother him, it certainly shouldn’t her. 
Didn’t she go barelegged in swimming? At any 
rate nothing could be done about it now. Hiding 
wet feet under a very short pink dress was not only 
ruinous to the dress, but a difficult gymnastic stunt 
96 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


as well, and the thing to be always was straight¬ 
forward. 

So Nan turned a face rosily brave toward the 
intruder, and her gray eyes met surprised brown 
ones levelly. 

“ We’re keeping cool, Mr. Wilson, as best we can. 
Won’t you—join us?” demurely. 

“ I’m tempted to.” He flung himself on the bank 
behind Bob. This casual acceptance of the circum¬ 
stances made them no longer circumstances. Nan 
and Bruce glanced at her bare feet as Bob and 
Shirley did. “ The city was too hot for me 
to-day. I had to come back. Thank Cod for 
gardens.” 

“ Even if all the trouble in the world started 
there?” Nan laughed. 

“ And if all the puddles were put together it 
would be a pond, wouldn’t it, Nan?” Bob was 
chasing a thought into the open begun some 
moments back in the dark recesses of his mind. 

“ Yes, dear.” Nan loved his slow way of think¬ 
ing things out. 

“ And if all the ponds were put together it would 
be as big and as big-deep and as big-across as our 
house, wouldn’t it, Nan? ” 

“ Probably, Bob-boy.” 

“And then,” Bob drew a long delighted breath. 

97 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Why then, we'd have to be fishes. Wouldn't we. 
Nan?" 

Nan flashed an amused smile at Bruce Wilson. 
She began to see light. 

“Of course, and we'd have to be swimming 
all the time. You'd love that, wouldn’t you, 
Bob?" 

“ How many strokes can you do now ?" his 
father asked. 

Bobby half turned to face him, one foot drawn 
partly out of the water. Pridefully he made 
answer. 

“ Four. I can do four strokes an' I'm four years 
old. How many can you do ? " 

“If you are four and can do four, how many do 
you suppose I can do? " 

Bobby regarded him gravely. 

“ Most a hundred." 

Nan’s laughter danced across the water. 

“ You got yourself into trouble, Mr. Wilson." 

“And how many do you think Nan can do?” 
Brown eyes held black eyes gravely. 

“ Maybe—ten." 

Bruce sat up, clasped his arms about his knees 
and looked at Nan with a mock sternness that hid 
something deeper. 

“ Bobby's arithmetic lessons must begin to- 
98 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


morrow, Miss Nan. The child has no sense 
of-” 

“ Time,” Nan leaning back on both hands, smiled 
up at her employer over her shoulder. “ But I 
think he did very well, considering.” 

The teasing light in Nan’s eyes died as she looked 
at him. Why, the man had minded. He had 
actually minded being thought a hundred by a child 
to whom numbers meant nothing. 

“ You’re foolish to take it to heart,” she told him 
out of a quick motherly compassion. 

Bruce rose and looked down at her. There was 
burning in his eyes an intensity of longing and hope¬ 
lessness that shocked her. 

“ It’s not so much the actual numerical calcula¬ 
tion,” he said. “ I understand that ignorance has 
exaggerated that, of course. It’s the idea back of 
the words, do you see? The belief that I’m out¬ 
side, beyond, out of reach. It’s lonely business— 
being out of reach.” He turned abruptly and 
swung away through the trees to the house. 

Nan sat staring at her white feet in the water. 
Bob and Shirley, scrambling up suddenly, went 
turtle hunting. She was alone for a few moments, 
alone with her thoughts that she faced with her 
usual honesty. 

“ He might just as well have told me—his eyes 
99 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


did—that I was keeping him out, because I'm not 
helping him in. That's what he meant, and it’s 
true. But he was too proud to say it Too ever¬ 
lastingly stiff-backed to ask for help.” Nan plunged 
a round chin into a curved palm. “ I don’t blame 
him. Td hate to ask for help too. I'd rather fight 
it through myself, but if it was a losing fight—I 
don't know.” 

Nan’s thoughts running along clear and sharp, 
suddenly came to a stop with a click. What was 
that new one ahead of her, blocking her way, loom¬ 
ing big? 

Bruce Wilson loved those children as much as she 
did! They were his, not by the potent charm of 
simply believing them to be, but in actual reality 
they were his. And yet they weren't as much his as 
they should be. Weren’t as much his as they were 
hers. 

“ Oh! I know! ” Nan cried softly to herself. 
“ I know now how he feels. Supposing I couldn't 
get in, wanting to and loving them so? And then 
supposing they were really mine and I couldn't? ” 

Nan was silent before the stark tragedy of this 
thought. And then swiftly, clearly the machinery 
of her mind began moving again. 

“ There’s nothing to do but help him. Whether 
I like him or not has nothing to do with it. He 
100 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


wants Bob’s love, Shirley’s trust, and I’m the only 

one can help him get them. Why-” Nan’s 

idea almost ran ahead of her. “ This is where the 
service of my dream comes in, I guess,—the service 
Dad talked about.” 

Having decided on her course of action. Nan 
wasted no time beginning the pursuit of it. 
Shirley’s birthday—she would be three—was the 
fifteenth of August. On that day Nan would begin 
inching Mr. Wilson into the hearts of his children. 
Inching him in! No! An idea came to her, the 
audacity of which left her breathless. For a second 
she hesitated. Then she nodded decisively. Inch 
him in—nothing! She would bounce him in, 
irresistibly, and if he understood, he would laugh 
with her. Once he laughed, with her and at him¬ 
self, he would have a good hold on the fringe of 
his desire. 

Nan did not make her plans alone. Miss Burton 
was hailed in as a fellow conspirator and though 
her doubt trailed out in many sentences, she never¬ 
theless hurried with a fluttering reassurance to prop 
Nan’s courage when it wobbled. And the children 
were co-workers too. For half the fun of birthday 
parties lies in the anticipation of events, the gloating 
over mysteries that others are itching to know. 

Bob had a secret from Shirley—his present to 
101 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


her. Shirley and Nan had a secret from Bob—the 
kind of ice-cream. Nan had a secret from the two 
of them—oh! two or three secrets,—as to other 
presents, other guests, other happenings. And Nan 
and Miss Burton had a secret from Bruce. For he 
was to be—all unknown to himself—he was to be 
the guest of honor. He was to be marched blind¬ 
folded, through the garden, to the Picnic Place, and 
then be presented- 

But wait. 

The day arrived. Just such a day as should be 
for a birthday. It was born green and gold and 
smiling early in the morning, and it stayed green 
and gold and smiling all day. At five o'clock a 
beautiful breeze had cooled it, and blown the dust 
off its face, and it was just settling contentedly in 
the tops of the trees for a peep at the party before 
it slid away into the darkness of the night. 

On the edge of the lily-filled pool danced Shirley, 
a sunbeam in her yellow dress with her golden curls 
flying about her face. Or wasn't she more a flower, 
Nan wondered, as she looked at the child's face, so 
delicately colored and shaped, a flower, nodding and 
swaying in utterly unconscious grace. 

Bob, in a white suit that made his hair and eyes 
look blacker, was manfully helping Agnes carry a 
basket to the Picnic Place. His face, in one month 
102 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


of Nan’s wise loving, had lost its habitual sullenness. 
Now, as he tugged the heavy thing across the grass, 
lifting his head to grunt directions to the maid be¬ 
side him. Nan thought she had never seen a finer 
looking boy. There was about him a quality of 
strength and purpose and thought that was striking 
in so young a lad. Seeing his black eyes flash a 
smile into hers Nan’s heart warmed and expanded. 

“ Bruce shall know him,” she decided. “ Oh! I 
hope I can put it over! ” 

A white cloth was spread over the Magic Ring, 
a big bowl of goldenrod stood in the centre, plates 
of sandwiches piled high held down each comer; 
there was teetering uncertainly, under Agnes’ watch¬ 
ful gaze, a big pitcher of milk. And out of sight 
behind a tree, presumably unseen and unsuspected, 
reposed the ice-cream freezer and something round 
and large, hidden under a napkin. 

Suddenly Nan blew a whistle. Shirley and Bob 
stared surprised. Nan was gazing at the tree tops. 
Agnes retreated to a respectful distance. 

Nan brought her gaze down. 

“ I invited the fairies to the party, Shirley,” she 
told the round-eyed eager children, “ and until to¬ 
day I thought they were coming. But they sent me 
word at the last moment that they were so busy mix¬ 
ing up paints for the fall coloring of mountainsides, 
103 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


that they really couldn’t come. They have to 
gather all the colors from the flowers, you know, 
and it’s heavy work finding flowers this time of year. 
Most of them are dry and dusty and dead. So the 
fairies have to travel far by day and work long at 
night filling their paint boxes and they asked to be 
excused. 

“ They did, however, promise to send one guest,— 
a mortal. He may seem at first dull and uninterest¬ 
ing to you, but you must remember that the fairies 
sent him. He is, I believe, related to them, and on 
certain occasions he is given the power to make 
wishes come true. Now shut your eyes tight—and 
I’ll blow this whistle the fairies left me. He’ll come 
when he hears it.” 

The children squeezed their eyes tight shut and 
Nan put the silver whistle to her lips. 

Down through the garden and around the pool 
came Miss Burton, leading Bruce, blindfolded, by 
the hand. For a brief second, Nan thought she 
must be crazy to attempt such foolishness with such 
a monument of dignity and common sense as Bruce 
had always been, with a man who gave the charm of 
make-believe no room. But the next instant she 
caught her courage with both hands. Simultane¬ 
ously eyes flew open and a bandage was slipped off. 
To call the look in the children’s faces disappoint- 
104 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ment, would not be giving it a name at all. Dis¬ 
gust, incredulity and a wavering peeping doubt of 
their beloved Nan were mingled there. And 
Bruce’s helpless bewilderment nearly numbed Nan’s 
imagination. She plunged in. 

“ Why, Daddy Wilson! Are you related to the 
fairies ? What a surprise this is! ” Up she walked 
to the man and gave him a swift clear glance that 
bade him play up. Then she put out both hands 
to him and drew him closer. “ I think it’s simply 
wonderful,” she cried, clinging to him with one hand 
and stretching out the other to Bob, “ that right 
here in our family is a man who knows as much 
about the fairies as we do—and we never knew it. 
Haven’t we been geese ? ” 

She laughed down into two faces that were now 
all wonderment. 

“ And we’d never have known, if Shirley hadn’t 
happened to be three to-day, and if we hadn’t hap¬ 
pened to invite the fairy-folk themselves, and if 
they hadn’t happened to be too busy to come.” 

“ Can you really make wishes come true ? ” Bob 
stood straightly before his astounding father and 
demanded an honest man-to-man answer. 

“ It depends, of course, on the wishes,” Bruce 
told him, and Nan’s heart, which had been tattooing 
in various measures of time, skipped a beat, then 
105 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


settled down to a restful rhythm. She breathed, 
and flashed a triumphant look to Miss Burton. 
“ Not being a fairy I can't make them all come 
true. But some—I believe I could. 

“ It was stupid of the fairies, I think,” he went 
on, “ not to tell me it was a birthday party I was 
coming to. I’m not prepared, not at all.” He 
plunged his hands into his coat pockets, then with 
dawning amazement on his face pulled them both 
out—full. “ I apologize to the fairies; they always 
know what they’re about. Here are the presents 
for the birthday girl.” 

A doll, of course, and a box of crayons. 

“ Might be wise, Bob, to help Shirley go through 
other pockets.” Bruce stood, smiling down into his 
son’s face. He was assuming a comradeliness he 
didn’t feel. Nan, watching from the corner of her 
eyes as she and Miss Burton made the last prepara¬ 
tions for the feast, applauded him heartily. He was 
playing up—the old sport! Grabbing this chance 
she had given him and hanging tight! And his 
assumption was fooling Bob. It was. She saw 
the little fellow’s stiffness suddenly melt as he went 
seriously and methodically about the business of 
finding more presents coming almost direct from the 
fairies. 

It was a success. From start to finish it was a 
106 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


success. Nan, of course, with her spirited whimsy, 
her swift snatching of awful moments from the 
brink of disaster, her unselfish determination, made 
it so. But they all helped. Miss Burton, weaving 
a daisy chain and gravely crowning Bruce King of 
the Fairies, did her share toward keeping the non¬ 
sense alive. And Bruce, oh! Bruce was splendid! 
There was laughter in his grave eyes at last! 
Laughter at himself, at the sweetly silly deception, 
at Nan who had so high-handedly managed the 
affair. There he sat, this erstwhile serious em¬ 
ployer of hers, the leaves tickling his ears, a flower 
tapping his forehead, his suit grass-stained, his 
hands dirty and sticky from dishing out ice-cream. 
But in his eyes was contentment,* a look as of one 
who has at last reached a journey’s end. As he 
listened to Bob’s questions and, carefully aided and 
abetted by Nan, made tolerable replies to a mind 
where doubt still lingered, there was on his face a 
serene sureness that he could convince the lad. The 
straining ache to please, to reach, was gone. By 
a miracle Bruce had entered the realm that belongs 
to childhood and by his own efforts he would 
stay. 

Nan saw that resolution in his face, recognized 
it in his casual instigating of “ stunts ” after a 
mountainous meal that had been topped by chocolate 
107 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ice-cream and a snow white cake all candlelit. He 
delved with some difficulty into the wells of his 
memory but succeeded—mind you!—succeeded in 
recalling gymnastic feats dear to the heart of a four- 
year-old-boy-most-five. Bruce, with his collar and 
coat off, on his back on the grass, with Bob balanced 
nicely on his hands and feet, was a new sight, but 
somehow he did not this time look queer. 

“ It’s the spirit of a thing that makes it right,” 
Nan discovered. “ His spirit’s in it now.” 

After the gymnastic exhibition came a rest. The 
day had slid from the tree tops to the edge of the 
sky and was lingering there in a golden glory. 
About them and above, birds were flutteringly find¬ 
ing a resting place for the night, and a thousand 
insects had begun their evening chorus. 

“ It’s time now,” Nan said, “ for the Wishes.” 

“ For what? ” Bob asked. 

“ For the Wishes. For you, Mr. Wilson, to do 
what the fairies sent you to do. On birthdays, you 
know, one has only to stand in the very exact centre 
of this Magic Ring and make a wish and it is sure 
to come true.” 

Bob’s eyes kindled. Shirley hopped about ex¬ 
citedly. 

“ Shirley, step in first, and everyone keep still as 
still. Shut your eyes, Shirley-girly, and say it out 
108 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


loud. What do you want most, wee darling ? Say 
it so the fairies can hear.” 

Shirley’s eyes squinted shut; then flew open. 

“ Wanta piece—a cake—more! ” she shouted. 

Nan nodded to Bruce and he gravely cut and 
handed her one. 

“ Your wish has come true. Now, Bob.” 

Bob entered the circle and pondered deeply. 
Then with eyes on his father he lifted his head and 
said slowly: 

“ I wish there could be a party every night.” 

“ Oh, but Bob,” Nan hurried to the rescue of the 
discomfited King of the Fairies. “ Then it 
wouldn’t be a party, don’t you see? It’s having 
them few—and once in a while—that makes them 
partified. Otherwise they’d be just regular suppers. 
I think you’d better say that again—differently. 
Wish for one every month or two. The fairies 
would be more likely to think it could happen.” 

So Bob, accepting this logic, remodelled his wish 
and the Honored Guest nodded gravely. 

A whispered colloquy took place. 

“ My birthday is in September and yours-” 

“In October, of course! ” Nan’s eyes danced. 

“And then comes Thanksgiving and Christmas. 
I guess I can manage that wish, though it’s a 
responsibility.” 


109 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Which has its pleasures. Now, Miss Burton! ” 
Nan called. 

Miss Burton took the centre of the Magic Circle 
and with a smile for the harassed relative of the 
fairies said: 

“ Oh! I wish for a cooler day to-morrow and a 
thunderstorm to-night to make it so.” 

“ Do my best,” he promised. “ It seems likely.” 

4t Now it's your turn,” Nan turned to the King. 

“ But fairies don’t wish,” Bob objected. “ They 
don’t have to.” 

“ He’s a mortal most of the time, and mortals 
always have wishes.” 

Bruce gave a sudden queer glance at Nan, then 
strode to the centre of the Wishing Ring. 

“ I wish,” and his look, with a new fire in it, swept 
the little company and rested on Nan, “ I wish the 
happiness I have had to-day may stay with me 
through all the days, forever and ever, till the end 
of time.” 

Nan was in his place almost before he had left it. 
The last rays of the sun slipped through a crack 
and rested on the gold of her hair; then suddenly 
the crack widened and Nan in her pale blue dress 
was bathed in the dying glory of it. Slim and 
straight she stood, her great gray eyes smiling 
tenderly into first one face then another. 

110 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ And I wish,” she said softly, “ that everybody’s 
wishes may come true.” 

The children were in bed. Nan, remembering 
the beautifully dressed doll she had tucked in the 
branches of a tree and had left there, slipped down¬ 
stairs, across the side verandah, through the garden 
and out to the lily-filled pool. She found the doll 
but the place was too beautiful to leave. 

The moon was full. In its silver light, sifted 
through the high tree tops, the black waters 
sparkled here and there as little breezes ruffled its 
calm. A bullfrog sounded its deep fog-horn on 
the bank—a near echo to distant rolls of thunder,— 
and there came to Nan’s senses as she sat in the 
sweet stillness the flash and dip of some tiny 
thing homing in the water. She was happy—so 
happy. 

A step behind her made Nan turn her head. Be¬ 
fore she could speak or move Bruce had dropped 
beside her and sat silently finishing a cigarette. 
Then he flipped it into the water and turned to face 
her suddenly. 

“ I saw you come out and I came to thank you,” 
he said simply. 

“ It was nothing.” 

“ Nothing to you perhaps. Everything to me. 

Ill 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


You’ve given me the start I needed. I can go on 
now.” 

Nan nodded. 

“You played up splendidly,” she said. They 
smiled at each other, then she went on. 

“ You see now, don’t you, some little use in pre¬ 
tending? ” 

He admitted he thought he did. But still, when 
they grew too old for this fairy and Santa Claus 
nonsense—what then? 

“ It will be a hurting time. Disillusionment 
always is,” he told her. 

“Yes, but-” Nan paused. Hurting times 

came anyway, and pretending, believing,—whatever 
you wanted to call it—did help you through them. 
It could grow to be a habit. One could carry fancy 
into the grown-up years. She faced him suddenly. 

“ Mr. Wilson, you are having, or have had, a 
hurting time yourself. Isn’t anything helping you 
through it? Some belief about something?” 

He stared at her so long she began to feel un¬ 
comfortable. It had been daring. But she would 
not drop her eyes. She had only been trying to 
drive a point home, trying to help. At last he drew 
a long breath and answered her. 

“ I’m—not sure.” 

“ There is beauty in life, you know,” she said 
112 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


softly, “ if you believe in it. But you've got to be¬ 
lieve to see." She was afraid she was preaching 
so she went on lightly: “Why, I believe so firmly 
in the existence of fairies—Good Luck and Bad 
Luck Fairies—that I can actually hear them laugh 
sometimes." 

“ All right, Miss Nan, have it your way. It’s a 
sweeter way than mine, I admit, and if pretending 
will get me close to Bob I’ll play the game. I’m 
trusting to your intuition." 

“ Thank you." 

“ And now," he told her, “ I want you to make 
another wish." 

“Why?" surprised. 

“ Because you didn't wish for yourself and a wish 
in a Magic Ring is no good unless it’s a wish for 
your very self. Of course you didn't know that. 
That’s where it's an advantage to be related to the 
fairies, as I am.” He was up and helping her. 
“ Step into the circle, Miss Carter—and make 
another. The King of Fairies commands it." 

“ But I haven't anything left to wish for! Truly! 
All my wishes have come true! " 

He looked at her sharply, with that hint of sus¬ 
picion in his eyes, a questioning of her sincerity. 

“ More money ? More leisure ? " he suggested. 

Nan stiffened, then stepped swiftly into the ring, 
113 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


lifted her face to the silver moonlight and her white 
arms to the fairies hidden in the night. 

“ I wish, little fairy-folk, you’d make that man 
over there believe in me—believe in me hard. 
That’s all.” 

Out she stepped and stood head upflung to face 
that very man. 

“ Why did you wish that ? ” 

“ Because you don’t, and because it hurts not to 
have you. I’ve never had anyone not believe me 
before. I like to be trusted. I can’t bear to have 
you doubt me. That’s the first reason ” 

She paused in her rush of words. 

“ What’s the second?” 

They were standing close together in the moon¬ 
light, Nan’s look plunged deep into his. She was 
determined to wipe away that miserable distrust. 
Her next words came from her heart, not her head. 

“ You seem so lonely, Mr. Wilson. So shut 
away from people,—from the warmth of them. I 
thought if you could trust me, you’d be opening a 
little door in yourself that would let some of the 
warmth of you out and the warmth of other people 
in. Do you see ? ” 

For a long second their looks held, his delving 
into the very heart of her. Then he spoke slowly. 

“ I do trust you, Nan Carter. I do trust you. I 
114 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


learned to to-day when you made your first wish, but 
being a suspicious soul, I wanted to make sure. 
But I do.” He squared his shoulders as though a 
weight were off them. “ And with the trust,” he 
went on, “ there has crept back into my heart a bit 
of beauty that has been gone a long time.” 

“ I'm so glad,” Nan’s hand touched his sleeve 
lightly. He caught and held it. 

“ But you don’t trust me,” he said quietly. “ Do 
you? ” 

“ Why, yes I do! ” The words came impulsively. 
But it was true. She did trust him—one of those 
distrusted men—and in the sudden white light of 
truth that blazed in on her for a second, she bravely 
told herself that she not only trusted him but she 
liked him. 

It was a stupendous and upheaving moment for a 
confirmed man-hater. Nan felt the need to be alone 
till she had got used to the companionship of this 
new idea. 

She flung him a swift upward glance, breathed a 
soft good-night, and vanished into the silver- 
streaked blackness. 


115 




CHAPTER VIII 


If Nan didn’t hate Bruce, why didn’t she? If 
she really did like him, could trust him, as she had 
involuntarily admitted there in the darkness of the 
pool, how had it come about? Did this difference 
in her feeling toward Bruce change her antipathy 
toward men in general? Had it been brought about 
through Bruce himself or through a gradual growth 
on Nan’s own part,—a growth she had been un¬ 
aware of during the weeks? 

These questions struggled from an inner darkness 
in Nan to light. She faced each one honestly as it 
rose, answered it courageously and turned to meet 
the next. It became clear to her finally that the 
hatred she had believed she held in her heart for all 
men had never been genuine. It was a hand-me- 
down, in the time of her adolescence, as her clothes 
had been, from her mother. It was her mother’s 
hatred that she had nourished for so many years of 
her life. She herself had never known, truly, what 
hate was. Any more than she knew now what love 
was. 

She did not hate because something deep within 
her had never been touched; her beliefs had never 
been shaken; her illusions had never been shattered. 
If this ever happened,—if, for instance, she ever 
116 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


discovered that the trust she put in someone she 
cared about had been abused, then she might hate. 
Would she? She wondered. Would she hate, as 
her mother had, or would she, instead, develop a 
larger faith, an overlooking kindness, a steadfast 
belief in the ultimate beneficence of hurt, as her 
father had? She didn’t know. She would never 
know until the time came, but she hoped tremen¬ 
dously she would be able to do what she had declared 
to Bruce she would do—keep it from discoloring 
her life. 

She had, then, tricked herself all these years. 
She had not really hated men. She had not really 
hated the man who had bought their antiques for 
a song. What she had felt was a momentary blaze 
of anger, but hadn’t it been partly her fault that 
she had been cheated? Having something to sell 
she should have found out its value, known what to 
demand in way of payment. That was business. 
And Mr. Ketcham—the man who had foreclosed 
the mortgage—for him she had felt scorn, white 

hot, but now- She wondered at herself. She 

had no feeling for him now except one of great pity. 
He was putting such foolish stress on the material 
possessions of life when what mattered most, what 
was of most priceless value, were the treasures, the 
memories he put into his heart through the years. 
117 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


How much richer he would really be, if he could 
look back now and know that he had left the Carters 
in their little home until they had somehow, some¬ 
way, managed to pay off the mortgage. 

What a tangle she had been in! Preaching to 
Bruce what she had never practiced,—the keeping 
of a fine faith in people.—And he had known. 
That was why he had lazily laughed at her, easily 
doubted. He knew she was saying one thing and 
doing another. He knew she was not trusting him. 
Was he aware, too, that she hadn't really known 
what she was talking about? That until that re¬ 
vealing moment on the night of Shirley's birthday 
her words had had no real root in her being? No, 
that wasn’t right. They had had a root, but no 
real branching and flowering. Her faith in people 
had actually existed all this time in her innermost 
being, had lain like a seed in her heart waiting for 
light and warmth, but it had yet to spring to life. 

Something within Nan was stretching and grow¬ 
ing. Introspection was a new business to her, but 
it began to fill much of her time. She must do it. 
Must discover this unknown person who had been 
silently with her through the years. Because, until 
she did, until she knew herself, she could not live 
her utmost, could not reach the heights and depths 
that a full life offered. And she wanted to. Nan 
118 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


was vaguely aware at last that this existence was 
not fully satisfying her, that children and money 
and beauty could not exhaust her capacity for joy 
as she had dreamed they could. Something else 
was needed. 

That was puzzling—and a little bit disturbing. 
Nan would not keep it with her. If she did, this 
serenity that had so recently come to her with her 
discovery about not hating, would be troubled. 
Everything was moving too smoothly now for her 
to begin to imagine she had another want, an¬ 
other longing unfulfilled. Besides, if she didn't 
know what it was, why bother? Nan finally ceased 
her self-analysis, accepted quietly the fact of her 
new trust in Bruce, in all men,—and lived in a 
waiting calm. 

What she was waiting for she didn't know. 
Sometimes a tremor of excitement seized her, a 
strange intuition that unguessed struggles were but 
a short way ahead of her. Would they be with Bob ? 
They must be. The intuitive feeling that she was 
not yet mistress of the situation where Bob was 
concerned, stayed by her. But nothing seemed to 
happen. 

The days melted, one by one, until September, 
breathless and weary, dragged its dusty feet into the 
year. The first week seemed endless and unbear- 
119 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


able, but as nothing ever is either endless or un¬ 
bearable, Nan and the children woke one morning 
to find a day drenched in rain. After that Septem¬ 
ber lifted its bruised head and continued the march 
of time with a brisker step. 

Through the weeks Bruce’s visits to the nursery 
or the pond or the shore, or wherever Nan and his 
children might happen to be, were an almost daily 
occurrence. And he brought with him, usually, a 
flavor of excitement in the shape of a message from 
the fairies, a new story—Bruce developed quite an 
aptitude for story telling—or an unexpected ex¬ 
cursion of some sort. There was the time, when in 
a mysterious whirl of excitement, Nan flew about 
superintending the packing of a lunch basket and a 
suitcase of clothes. This was followed by a jubilant 
stowing away of possessions and people—Miss 
Burton and Agnes included—into the automobile. 

Bob sat in the front seat close up next to Dad 
and with his little hands under the big ones and 
his face tremendously sober with the responsibility, 
helped him steer the car. Once Dad let him do it 
alone. Bob thrilled. Then a fly tickled his nose, 
his hands flew to his face and Dad barely saved them 
from a spill in the ditch. 

There had been two hours of driving through 
country of a beauty that filled Nan with a solemn 
120 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ecstasy. Stretches of rough space colored by queer 
little flowers of purple and yellow; wind-swept 
places bare of everything but a spiky green grass; 
sand dunes thrusting their yellow heads up suddenly 
out of a flat earth, and, always unexpectedly, a 
stream of bluest blue water rivalling the sky over¬ 
head. 

They had finally arrived at a yacht club; had 
repacked themselves in a sailboat and had gone 
skipping out over the water under a billowing 
white sail. They had lunch here; then while Shir¬ 
ley was asleep in the cabin, the two men of the 
party, after anchoring the boat, slipped over the 
side for a swim. Bob wore a life-preserver, and 
looked like a little dog with his black hair plastered 
flat over his forehead and his big eyes gleaming 
soberly below. 

That day marked an advance in the understanding 
that was growing between Bruce and his boy. The 
man appreciated at last that Bob’s nature, so dif¬ 
ferent from Shirley’s, could not easily give ex¬ 
pression to his deepest moments. He no longer 
sought to stir enthusiasm or response in the lad, but 
with a keen glance at the intent young face beside 
him, he would reach out and pat a bare brown knee 
quietly. Sometimes Bob paid no attention, some¬ 
times he flashed a bright glance into his father’s 
121 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


eyes, but usually there was a little sigh of content¬ 
ment, a little wiggle of joy that Nan and Bruce 
never missed seeing. 

That was a day of days—but there were others. 
There was the afternoon when Bruce hurried in to 
say that business took him out to a small town in 
New Jersey. If Nan could get the children ready 
they would all go. Never mind about supper— 
they'd stop somewhere. 

The big car was being repaired, so Agnes and 
Miss Burton were left at home. Nan with Shirley 
on her lap and Bob squeezed silently between her 
and Bruce, somehow made herself comfortable in 
the roadster. 

“ Lucky you’re not much bigger than the chil¬ 
dren,” Bruce smiled and Nan smiled back as word¬ 
lessly as Bob. 

Their objective that day was a farm, a real old- 
fashioned down-at-the-heel farm. Bob and Shirley 
were entranced. They hung fascinated over the 
pig-pen; they ran with delighted cries of terror 
from the turkey gobbler; they had a wonderful ride 
on the top of a mountainous haymow; they saw 
cows being milked and rabbits running about loose, 
and at last there came supper of milk and rusk and 
apple sauce given them by a grateful woman who 
sang Bruce’s praises into his burning ears. Nan 
122 




Jt 

THE DEAR PRETENDER 


mischievously made the woman tell the story,—how, 
she and her good husband had been unable to meet 
a promissory note; how the villain had threatened 
suit; how, weeping, she had gone, all unknown to 
her husband, to Mr. Wilson because he had helped 
a friend of a friend of hers once, and she hadn't 
known what else to do; and how he had happened 
to know the man and had exerted pressure or in¬ 
fluence enough to win for the old couple an exten¬ 
sion of sixty days. He had remembered the sixty 
days was up to-day and had come all the way to 
see if they were keeping the promise that he had 
assured the man they would; and how finally, what 
with the fine apple crop, they had the money and 
were going to make the payment to-night. 

The ride home was a silent one. Shirley fell asleep 
in Nan's arms almost at once; Bob's head dropped 
suddenly against her, after a terrific battle when 
Bruce and Nan had smiled over its determined jerks 
back to uprightness. Then, with the sky paling be¬ 
fore them, and the smooth road unwinding beneath 
them, the two grown-ups became absorbed in their 
own thoughts. 

Nan’s thoughts were all of the man beside her. 
She stole a look at his profile. There was a grim 
strength in the lines from his cheek to his chin, that 
was offset by the steady kindness of his brown eyes 
123 




THE BEAR PRETENDER 


and the sweetness of his smile. He had a trust¬ 
worthy look. Nan was glad she had discovered it 
for herself before to-day, glad she had found his 
likable qualities before she heard the story the 
woman had told her; glad that having found that 
she could trust and like him she was letting herself 
do it as whole-heartedly as she had kept herself 
distrusting and hating before. This liking game 
made the world a so much dearer place than hating. 
It filled her all up with a beautiful satisfying calm 
and peace and she had a queer feeling that it would 
last, that no matter what happened she would 
believe in him and his goodness. It was a wonder¬ 
ful feeling to rest on. 

Darkness came and the stars stole out, one by 
one, until the heavens were jewelled in their most 
extravagant manner. The air, sweet and cool, blew 
against Nan's hot face. She pressed her lips against 
Shirley's curls, then put her head back with a little 
sigh of contentment. 

Bruce heard it and glanced at her. 

“ Tired?" 

“ Oh, no. That was—bliss." 

Another mile sped away then Nan said: 

“ That was nice of you to bother to help that 
woman." 

“ All in the day's work," he returned carelessly. 

124 




THE BEAR PRETENDER 


“ But lots of men wouldn’t have thought so.” 

There was a ringing quality of earnestness in his 
voice new to Nan as he made answer. 

“ Well, perhaps I have a little more reason than 
most for lending a helping hand.” 

This fell into silence until Bruce lifted the thought 
again and carried it further. 

“ My father made me feel that having wealth 
was a privilege and a responsibility. I have no right 
to spend it all on myself and those dear to me. I 
am, in a way, a custodian of money that belongs to 
other people. Someone becomes poor when some¬ 
one else becomes rich.” He paused. 

“Oh, that’s true!” Nan cried with such an in¬ 
tensity of feeling that Bruce turned to look at her. 
But she had closed her lips lightly and was staring 
ahead. After all, why rake up bitter memories now 
when the present was so beautiful? She shook her 
head at Bruce’s unspoken question and he finished 
lightly. 

“ So, when one less fortunate than I comes into 
my path, I do my little best, trying not to hurt pride 
or remove initiative.” 

“That’s splendid.” Nan’s warm smile met his 
grave face. 

“ Some day I hope to find the person—or per¬ 
sons—whom our getting rich made poor.” 

125 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I should think that would be easy.” 

“ It isn’t. Lives shift, change, go out,—so fast— 
and I didn’t hear the story till I was a man.” 

Bruce carried his sleeping boy into the house 
while Nan bore Shirley’s featherweight. In the 
darkness the two children were undressed. Then 
the two grown-ups stood by the beds a silent 
moment, until Nan held out a hand, whispered good¬ 
night and slipped into her room. 

That was the last excursion the four of them had 
together. With cooler days Bruce stayed more reg¬ 
ularly and later in the office. His daily visits 
lessened to three or four a week and when he did 
come there was usually an abstracted look in his 
face that puzzled Nan. It went on the instant the 
children set upon him, but it returned whenever 
they were absorbed alone or by Nan. Nan won¬ 
dered, but accepted Bruce’s regretful explanation 
that business had its troubles now and then and his 
business seemed to be needing at present a careful 
and constant guidance through turbulent waters. 
He said it with a smile and Nan dismissed her slight 
misgiving. 

At the end of September there came a three days’ 
rain. It was difficult to keep the children amused 
and peaceful by the end of the second, but on the 
afternoon of the third Nan’s ingenuity had been 
126 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


quite exhausted and her patience nearly so. She 
left Bob and Shirley in the nursery after starting 
them at the stringing of buttons and beads and 
slipped into her room to drop on the swing on her 
porch. 

The rain had ceased and the thick gray clouds 
seemed to be lightening. A wind chased vague 
filmy shreds across the sky and Nan, watching, 
hoped fervently that the weather would change be¬ 
fore morning. She was tired. She closed her eyes 
just as an angry cry from Shirley came to her ears. 
Then the little girl burst into heart-broken sobs. 
Nan sprang up. 

In the nursery Bob had retreated to a comer with 
all the beads and buttons. Shirley’s string lay 
broken on the floor and she stood with the tears 
streaming down her face. 

“Did Bobby tate all Tirley’s beads!” she cried, 
" an’—an’—wouldn’t div her any.” 

“ But, Bobby dear,” Nan moved over to him, with 
Shirley’s hand in hers, “ that’s not fair, you know. 
It isn’t fair for you to have them all. Is it? Any 
more than it would be fair for Shirley to take yours. 
There are enough for both of you. Now suppose 
you put half of them in this box and give them 
back to sister.” 

“ Won’t.” 


127 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Bobby clinched the matter by turning his back 
and clutching his box firmly in his lap. 

Bruce appeared in the doorway. Nan explained 
the situation to him briefly, then dropped on her 
knees beside the stubborn boy. 

“ Please, Bob." 

He stared at her angrily. Nan gathered her¬ 
self for the battle, leaned close and looked at him 
quietly. 

“ Bob, dear. Listen. You aren’t playing fair. 
If you don’t play fair with the beads and buttons 
you can’t play with them at all. Nan will take them 
away.’’ 

Bob’s mouth became grim. Nan waited, then she 
said: 

“ Bobby, I’ll give you a few moments to think 
about it. If you want to give Shirley her half you 
may do so, and keep yours. If you don’t, Nan must 
take them all away from you.’’ 

She rose from her knees and went over to Bruce, 
who was still standing listening. 

“ Was that right? ’’ she asked in a low tone. 

He nodded. 

“ The time has come, I think, Mr. Wilson, for 
Bob and me to have it out. He has done this too 
often. It’s not fair to Shirley. She’s learning 
selfishness too, and it’s spoiling a natural generosity 
128 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and sweetness in her. Bob is hurting them both. 
He must be made to see. Do you agree ? ” 

Bruce nodded again, a troubled look in his eyes. 

Nan went back to the boy. 

“ Are you ready to give Shirley her beads now, 
Bob?” 

“ Won't.” 

Nan leaned down and quickly loosened his hold 
on the box. Then she arose in time to avoid flying 
arms and legs. Bob had gone into one of his un¬ 
governable rages. 

Nan’s face was set. She glanced at Bruce. 

“ Stay here till it’s over,” she said. “ I want you 
to see for yourself.” 

For a half hour Bob was allowed to shriek. 
Bruce, Shirley and Nan retired to her screened porch 
where they watched the sun burst through the clouds 
in a welcoming blaze of light. Bruce made various 
suggestions; Nan made a few herself to which 
Bruce gave his approval. During the course of the 
next hour they were all tried and all failed. Nan, 
returning from a final disappointment, faced Bruce. 
Shirley was being given her supper by Agnes. 

“ Mr. Wilson,” Nan said slowly, “ there is 
nothing left to do but to try a whipping.” 

“ No!” 

“ But he can’t keep this up. Don’t you see he 
129 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


can’t? He’s begun striking his head now. Hear 
him. He will hurt himself. He hits the floor, wall, 
furniture—anything. It’s his last resort and always 
weakens me. If I give in to him now,—return the 
beads,—what has he learned? How will he ever 
acquire self-control, the biggest lesson he has to 
learn in life? Let me try a whipping once. I only 
had to do it once to David.” 

But Bruce was firm. 

“ I don’t believe in it. There must be another 
way. Give him more time, more love. You’ve 
made progress-” 

“ But I slide two steps backward on an occasion 
like this, for the one I made forward.” 

They returned to the nursery. Bob, a wretched, 
writhing figure with purple face, wild eyes and gasp¬ 
ing sobs was beating his head against the bed. 
Bruce spoke quickly. 

“ Give him the beads. He’ll be in convulsions in 
a moment.” 

Nan shook her head. 

“ It’s all wrong,” she murmured, but she had to 
obey. 

Such a defeat as this left her heartsick. Any 
successes she may have had shrivelled to nothing in 
the blackness of the despair that filled her. Bit by 
bit, with painstaking care, with endless patience and 
130 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


hope and lore she would build up in Bob what she 
believed was a foundation for self-control, only to 
see him dash it to the ground himself. And she 
was powerless to prevent it. Bruce kept her hands 
shackled. It wasn’t fair. He had left the situation 
to her, he had said, but he hadn’t. 

A similar circumstance arose within the week. 
Bruce was not there but Nan reported it to him. 
Persistently, bravely, she made her request again. 
Would he release her from her promise not to whip 
the child? With some curtness he refused. Nan 
set her lips and left him silently. She would not 
quarrel. But couldn’t he see? Why couldn’t he 
see ? Was he just stubborn ? 

Weeks of peace followed. Nan began to think 
perhaps Bruce was right after all. Then just as 
she was becoming at rest concerning Bob, his rela¬ 
tions with her, and his relations with his father, a 
new trouble appeared on the horizon. 

About the middle of October, one day while the 
children were taking their afternoon rest, Nan 
slipped down into the laundry to press a waist she 
had just finished making over. The laundry opened 
off the servants’ dining-room and was reached either 
from this or through the outside entrance. Nan, 
not liking to disturb the servants, who were linger¬ 
ing over a late lunch, went through the kitchen and 
131 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


came into the laundry from the outside. Through 
the closed door voices and laughter came to her. 
She paid no attention until her own name caught 
her ears, then, testing the electric iron with a wet 
finger and beginning her pressing she could not help 
but hear. 

“I tell you ’tain’t Miss Nan. Why should he 
worry about her for?” the cook's voice, loud in 
argument, rang through the partition. 

“ No, it hasn’t nothing to do with Miss Nan,” 
Agnes agreed in her soft gentle tone. “ Him and 
her are as friendly as ever was since Shirley’s birth¬ 
day.” 

“ An’ ’tain’t Bob,” the cook continued, “ is it, 
Agnes ? Didn’t you say yourself he was getting bet¬ 
ter all the time ? ” 

“ Yes,” Agnes agreed again. “ Land! We’ve 
had peace now for three weeks. She’s just won¬ 
derful, that’s what she is.” 

Nan hurried with her ironing. This was pleasant 
enough hearing but she believed in the old saying 
that listeners never heard good of themselves. She 
didn’t want to wait for more. 

“ No, ’tain’t Bob,” the cook continued. “ Now 
what is it, worryin’ him sick, making him send back 
half his meals untouched? What you gotter say 
about it, you Perkins, you? Sitting up there like 
132 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


you was in the company of the Boss himself. Bend 
your back and unhook your tongue.” 

Perkins’s slow words came at last. 

“ Business. That’s wot it is. Business. Did ’e 
hever ’ave men come to ’is den—two hand three 
hov ’em at once in han hevening before ? I says not. 
An’ did ’e hever sit hup hisself huntil hafter mid¬ 
night, even when ’is wife’s death was new to 
him? Hagain I says not. Business. That’s just 
wot.” 

Nan was through. Disturbed, she clicked off the 
current, lifted the dainty waist in her hand and 
slipped out as she had come in. Up in her room 
she put away the waist and went out on her porch. 
Were the servants imagining or was Bruce really 
having troubles of some kind ? To be sure he didn’t 
play as much as he used to with the children, and 
she had heard voices and comings and goings in the 
evenings of late. But she and Miss Burton had 
believed the men were guests come for a game of 
billiards or a quiet smoke. They had nodded ap¬ 
proval together and had hoped it would continue. 

“ Oh, I do hope it’s nothing serious,” Nan 
thought. “Just as I’m getting his life a little 
warmer—a little happier. I don’t want miserable 
business to mix him up and keep him away from 
Bob. He’s just getting such a beautiful start. 

133 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Why, Bob saves up things now, to tell him! IBs 
too sweet.” 

That night when Bruce came to the nursery Nan 
watched him with the eagle eye that a mother keeps 
on her young. She was not going to let anything 
loosen Bruce's hold on his children. If there were 
business troubles, really troubles, then he should 
keep that much closer to them. She saw Bruce set¬ 
tle in the wing-chair by the window, saw the chil¬ 
dren race to his knees, saw the fine frown between 
his brows fade as contentment crept in and trou¬ 
bles crept out, and with a little sigh of relief she 
nodded wisely to herself. 

“ Can’t be much or he wouldn’t forget so quickly. 
Guess the servants just love gossip and the excite¬ 
ment of worry.” 

So she reassured herself. 

After Bruce had gone Nan undressed the chil¬ 
dren and helped them to bed. As she went to the 
windows to fling them wide, she realized with a 
start of surprise that fall was upon them. The air 
that came in was cold. 

“Clothes!” Nan’s femininity shouted. “I 
haven’t a thing for cool weather and neither have 
the children.” 

She stood a moment breathing in the cool air, 
then she turned back to her room. 

134 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I'll take a day off! ” she determined excitedly. 
“ I’ll leave Agnes in charge and I’ll dash for little 
old New York and buy —not shop! I'll get me ”— 
Nan drew a deep ecstatic breath—“ a stunning suit 
—the price of which would have staggered me three 
months ago. I shall thrill but never bat an eye. 
And a cuddly fur piece. I’ll get six pairs of silk 
stockings, a hat, a dozen hair nets all at once, a silk 
dress-” 

Nan danced to her desk and furiously made out 
a list. The fun of it! Of buying without think¬ 
ing! Nan wanted to envelop everyone she knew in 
her joy. Her list ended by looking this way: 

1. Doll carriage for Shirley. 

2. Her clothes. 

3. Wheelbarrow for Bob. 

4. His clothes. 

5. Waist for Agnes. 

6. Something for Mr. Wilson if I can think of 
it and dare. 

7. Something for Betty’s baby. 

8. Ties for all the boys. 

9. A sweater for Betty herself. 

10. My things. 

11. Double chocolate pecan sundae. 

12. Movies—No, real theatre, if I have time. 

“ There now! ” Nan sat back and surveyed the 
135 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


list. “ I guess that’s all. Now I must go down and 
ask Br—Mr. Wilson if it’s all right.” 

Eagerly she sped down the stairs and paused at 
the door of his den. Bruce, hearing her, looked up 
and instinctively smiled. Nan, in her green organdy 
frock was a-tiptoe, her arms stretched out on either 
side of the doorway, patently bursting with some¬ 
thing unsaid. 

“ Do say it, Miss Nan.” Bruce, rising, came for¬ 
ward. 

Nan entered the room and stood before him. 

“ It’s not a saying thing. It’s an asking thing, 
Mr. Wilson. I want a day off. I want to leave the 
children and go to New York and—and—spend 
all my money,” she finished, her eyes dancing. 

“ Of course,” he agreed. “ It’s time you did take 
a vacation. You haven’t left the children at all, 
since you’ve been here, have you? ” 

Nan shook her head. 

“ I haven’t wanted to. I don’t particularly now, 
but we all need clothes,—warmer ones.” 

In the hall Perkins was moving to the front door 
in answer to the bell. 

“ I should be glad to take you in the car with me, 
Miss Nan, if you can be ready by seven-thirty.” 

“ Thank you so much. That will be splendid. 
Then I can get home early.” 

136 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


At the foot of the stairs Nan saw three men 
coming in. In the back of her mind hovered a 
vague consciousness of trouble, vague memories of 
servants' gossip, but these she brushed from her as 
she flew back to her room and settled down to the 
absorbing business of trimming a hat that would 
look decent to wear to the gay metropolis the next 
day. 

Hats! Nan had worn one just twice that sum¬ 
mer. Those times were on the occasions of her two 
trips with Bruce and the children. She smiled as 
she worked, fingers flying in and out, trying a bit 
of black here, a wee bow there- 

It was after eleven when Nan with a sigh stood 
up and tried on the hat before her mirror. It would 
do, but that was the best she could say about it. 
She stretched, yawned, laid the hat on her couch 
and stepped into the children's room for a last look 
to see if they were covered. Their door into the hall 
was unlatched and rattling. Nan went over to close 
it and found that the up-stairs light in the hall was 
still on. She slipped out, closing the door behind 
her, and moved quickly to the switch at the head 
of the stairs. 

In the darkness she stood a moment, listening. 
Those three men must still be there. Voices floated 
up to her from Bruce's den. There was the sound 
137 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 




of a door opening, then the voices again, and 
Bruce's sounding above the others. 

. . like more time to consider your offer 
. . . within the month ..." 

She flew back down the hall as steps and voices 
drew closer, and shut herself into her room. 

“ Almost eleven-thirty! " she glanced at the 
clock. “ Oh! There is something the matter. Men 
don't talk like that unless there is." Nan pressed 
her two hands together, and whispered impulsively 
to a Somebody she hoped was around: “If there 
is going to be any trouble, let me be here to help. 
Let me find a way. I've got to help him, same as 
I'd help Bob or Shirley. It’s just—part of my 
business." 


138 




CHAPTER IX 


Nan looked as fresh as a flower with the dew 
still on it when she took her seat beside Bruce Wil¬ 
son in the limousine the next morning. Under her 
straight black hat her hair gleamed a shining gold, 
and her eyes, deep and sweet, smiled happily at a 
smiling world. 

She had been a little troubled at leaving Bobby. 
One could never tell with him, what would happen. 
But he had promised to be good and Agnes was so 
tactful and capable—Nan, with a sigh, rolled cares 
off her heart Nothing could possibly go wrong on 
a wonder-morning like this, anyway. The birds 
carolled it insistently, exuberatingly. The sky 
smiled it serenely. Nature was celebrating with 
Nan, rejoicing in her well-deserved holiday, and 
Bruce, glancing down at the slim little figure in her 
white satin sport skirt and thin black sweater, 
smiled in pleasure at her contentment. 

“ I wish I had found you ages ago/’ he said rather 
startlingly. 

Nan looked up in surprise. 

“ For Bobby’s sake. He would have been spared 
so much.” 

“ That’s very appreciative of you—and a great 
encouragement to me.” 


139 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


That ride was to be memorable for Bruce's sud¬ 
den thrusting questions. He was for some reason 
digging deep, and managed in spite of his direct¬ 
ness that brought the color to Nan’s cheeks and laid 
any pretense bare, not to leave her feeling stripped, 
defenseless. Had she shown a disinclination to an¬ 
swer him, he would have left her in her privacy. 
But she, half-eager, half-shy, met him with a glad¬ 
ness unaccountable to her. 

“ Why didn’t you trust me at first. Nan Carter? ” 
So Nan told him. Quite easily she went back to 
the beginning, filling in the outline she had sketched 
in his office, painting in the shadows, the black and 
gray shades of her past, that made the sunlight of 
her nature so much the brighter. She turned the 
years inside out for him, showed him the dinginess 
of days that were brightened only by the rainbow 
hope of her own fancy. Bruce neither moved nor 
spoke. And finally, she turned to him sweetly. 

“ And you made me see that I didn’t hate at all. 
That I didn’t really distrust—ever.” 

“ I don’t understand. How have I done that? ” 
Nan’s clear eyes studied him a moment. Her 
laugh was light and frank. 

“ I don’t know. I don’t know what there is about 
you, but somehow I do know that you would never 
be a Mr. Ketcham. I knew it before I went to the 
140 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


farm in New Jersey and heard that woman’s story 
—I knew it—oh—ages before that The night of 
Shirley’s birthday.” 

Nan’s honest eyes dropped for a moment. There 
was something very dear and precious in the mem¬ 
ory of that revealing moment by the pool and she 
didn’t want Bruce to see just yet how dear it was. 

“If I’ve really done that I’m immensely proud 
and glad,” he said. “ One cannot do a much finer 
thing than restore a lost faith.” 

“ Well, mine wasn’t lost exactly because I never 
really had it.” Nan lifted her face in time to see in 
Bruce’s eyes that same look she had caught in his 
office. Pain—because something beautiful, precious, 
once possessed was lost. He recovered himself in¬ 
stantly. 

“ No, you haven’t had the hurt of losing, and 
I’m happy you are having the joy of discovery— 
through me. Now tell me, Miss Nan, if you will, 
a little more about your father’s failure. Being a 
business man, you’ve skipped over what seems to me 
the meatiest part. Your father was the owner of 
a silk company, you say? ” 

“ Yes.” Nan drew her brows together in thought. 
“ I skipped over it because it’s so vague to me. I 
was just nine and couldn’t understand very well, 
you know, and Dad didn’t talk about it much after- 
141 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ward. As I recall it, there was a consolidation of 
Bilk companies into a Trust-” 

“ Yes/' Bruce was listening intently. 

“ They asked Dad to join and he refused/' 

“ Why? ” 

“ He had a machine that he and another man had 
invented, a machine for finishing silk with a new 
lustre. They had spent years and years working 
on it, Mr. Wilson, and had just completed the thing 
to their satisfaction. I remember Ferguson almost 
lived at our house at times. John Ferguson was the 
real inventor, but Dad, because of his experience, 
had given innumerable practical suggestions all 
along and Dad was financing it. It was patented 
in Ferguson’s name but they were both to share in 
the profits. There was a written agreement.” 

Bruce nodded. He was lighting a cigarette. 
Nan saw his face suddenly severe. Funny how just 
puffing on a cigarette could make a man look so 
grim. 

"Well, I believe if he had joined the Trust it 
would have shared in the profits. It didn't seem 
fair to Dad. He didn't care so much for himself. 
He had plenty of money then. But he cared for 
John Ferguson who hadn't a cent and was the real 
inventor. He fought for John’s sake, you see, al¬ 
though there was pride and selfishness in it too— 
142 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Dad always said so. They wanted to keep it to 
themselves. I don't blame them." 

“ No, of course not. So your father fought the 
Trust." 

This was a statement more than a question. 

Nan nodded. 

“ All the money he’d saved to put his machine on 
the market he had to sink into fighting the Trust. 
He fought for three years and—lost." 

“ What became of the machine ? " 

“ It was never actually built. There were just the 
plans for it and the drawings-" 

“But those, child—those " At the impa¬ 
tience in his voice Nan glanced up startled. His eyes, 
keen and piercing, were fixed on her with a burning 
brightness. Nan drew back. She was hurt. He 
seemed to care, not so much for her father’s loss 
and Ferguson’s as the loss to the silk business of a 
machine that ought to be making money for some¬ 
one. Perhaps for himself. A little of the old mis¬ 
giving stirred suddenly in Nan’s mind. She stiff¬ 
ened and lifted her head. 

Bruce felt the doubt, saw Nan’s disappointment 
and retreat and instantly he became himself again. 
The intense lines about his mouth disappeared and 
gentleness returned to his eyes. 

“ Wrong should always be righted," he said 
143 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


quietly, “ and your father and Ferguson were 
wronged. It set me wondering if something couldn’t 
be done about it, even now.” 

Nan shook her head. 

“ I don’t see how.” 

But she was reassured and comforted. Bruce 
was, as usual, thinking of others. What a mean, 
suspicious mind hers had become through the habit 
of years. Then her memory raced back and caught 
up a new thought she had not yet given Bruce. 

“ If a friend had been the friend he believed him 
to be, Dad would never have been wronged.” Nan 
blazed it out. “ Oh! For that I don’t blame Mother 
for hating. If someone I trusted and liked failed 
me, I think I should hate too. Really hate. But 
you can’t unless you suffer yourself.” 

“ What do you mean by that—if a friend had 
been the friend he believed him to be? ” 

“ Why, some man,—someone Dad knew quite 
well,—was the biggest stockholder in the new Trust. 
Through his influence he could have prevented the 
Trust from pushing Dad and his company to the 
wall.” 

“ Do you know that? ” Bruce’s voice was quiet. 

“ Know what ? ” 

“ That he was the biggest stockholder and that he 
didn’t oppose the policy which ruined your father ? ” 
144 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ As well as those things can be known. On the 
face of it, it looked as though he failed Dad. That 
cut him worse than anything, I think.” 

“ It’s not always fair to judge from appearances,” 
Bruce suggested. 

“ Then why didn’t he hunt Dad up later and tell 
him he was sorry ? Explain ? Or something ? ” 

Bruce did not answer. His silence lasted a long 
while, through the lighting and finishing of another 
cigarette. Then he glanced at the girl beside him. 

“ Now you’ve told me all but one thing,” he said 
gently. 

Nan looked at him inquiringly. 

“ Where are the prints—the drawings?” 

Nan hesitated. There was really no reason why 
she shouldn’t answer. If she told him—not trusting 
him—what matter? John Ferguson was faithful 
to the core and Bruce could never get them from 
him. If she told him, trusting him,—what differ¬ 
ence ? The secret was safe, either way. 

“ Ferguson has them.” Bruce suppressed a start 
that Nan did not see. “ He was Dad’s foreman 
and before Dad died he left everything pertaining to 
the machine to John. John swore on the Bible to 
Mother that he’d never let the papers go out of his 
hands until he could put the machine on the market 
himself. He’s been working ever since, trying to 
145 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


save up enough money to do it.” A tender smile 
lit Nan's eyes. “ Faithful old John. He’ll never be 
able to do it. It takes thousands and thousands, 
doesn’t it? ” she queried. 

Bruce nodded. His arms were folded across his 
chest, his eyes straight ahead. 

“ But it’s his dream and he’s happy dreaming it.” 
Nan was still a second. “ Dad always believed,” 
she went on, “ that some day his dream—and John’s 
—would come true. That some day that machine 
would be doing just what he wanted it to do.” 

Still Bruce was silent. 

“ Having faith that your dreams will come true 
is the biggest part to making them, I think, don’t 
you?” 

At last Bruce answered her lightly, flinging the 
cigarette out of the car window. 

“ Oh, Luck has a lot to do with it. Luck or Fate 
or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes Fate 
has a way of—getting even.” Then his tone 
changed. “ Come, Miss Nan, tell me about all the 
beautifuls you are to buy to-day.” 

The subject was turned swiftly. Only once again 
on that ride did Bruce refer to her story. 

“ What was the name of the man whom you be¬ 
lieved failed your father? ” His gaze was curiously 
intent as he waited for her answer. 

146 




THE DBAR PRETENDBR 


“ Robert—something. I don’t know the rest. He 
would never tell me.” 

“ And where is this man Ferguson now, do you 
know?” 

Nan shook her head. 

“ I haven’t heard from him in two years. He 
used to keep us posted but he has rather neglected 
us lately. I expect one day, though, he’ll turn up 
at Betty’s, silent and devoted as usual.” 

A look of relief crept into Bruce’s face, and the 
conversation shifted again. 

“If you care to, Miss Nan, Parker can take you 
around to-day to the stores, and if you are kept 
busy as late as five-thirty, we can ride back to¬ 
gether.” 

“ Oh-” Nan thought a moment. “ I’d 

love to use the car to do my shopping. It will save 
loads of time and make me feel tremendously 
silk-lined and gilt-edged, besides. But if I 
do I shall get through and go home by train 
early. I want to be there for their supper, Mr. 
Wilson.” 

He nodded. 

“ Suit yourself, but know that Parker and the car 
are at your disposal. This is where I leave you." 
He turned squarely to her as the automobile slowed 
before his office building. “ You are sure, are you, 
147 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


that your man-hating tendency has disappeared for 
keeps? ” 

Half-jesting, half-earnest, he waited for an an¬ 
swer. 

“Oh, quite. You removed it.” Nan met jest 
with jest. “And no one but you could bring it 
back. Of course if you failed me-•” 

“ Your silence holds a dire threat. Let me know 
the worst.” 

Nan laughed gaily. “My imagination staggers 
here.” 

Bruce laughed with her but in his eyes was seri¬ 
ousness. “ You must promise never to hate me. 
Miss Nan, always to trust me, will you?” 

“ No matter what? ” she queried. 

“No matter what,” gravely. 

“ You ask a good deal. I’d be promising in the 
dark. How do I know what you may do? ” Nan 
was teasing. 

“Isn’t trusting for just that? For dark places 
as well as light? For blindness as well as vision? 
Please give me your promise.” 

“Mercy!” Nan cried. “How solemn we’ve 
grown—over nothing at all. Of course I promise; 
at least I’ll promise to try.” 

Bruce put out his hand, Nan’s flew to meet it, 
and for a second, with her hand lying warm and 
148 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


close in his strong clasp they were alone in the wil¬ 
derness of a throng-filled city. 

“ Good-bye and thank you. I shan't forget/’ he 
said. 

Nan watched his broad shoulders swing through 
the door. Then she shrugged and pulled out her 
shopping list. It was absorbing but the hour’s con¬ 
versation she had just had was absorbing too. Nan 
caught herself again and again from the foolish 
sweetness of recalling looks and words of Bruce’s. 
Strangely enough, although suspicion of him had 
returned during that ride, it slipped away in her 
memory of it. She knew he had been startlingly 
queer at moments but nothing but his gentleness was 
clear to her. Finally she determinedly fixed her 
mind on her day’s work and lost herself in the thrill 
of contemplated buying. A patient Parker was at 
last directed to Fifth Avenue. 

On second sober thought, Nan abandoned the idea 
of buying a present for Mr. Wilson. 

“ It might look a little queer,” she thought. 
“ Isn’t it odd how the simple things in life are al¬ 
ways the most complicated ? But there-” a wee 

sigh of disappointment slipped out. “ I’ll get Miss 
Burton something instead.” 

The hours flew by and at three o’clock Nan had 
managed to squeeze in the full programme she had 
149 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


mapped out except the theatre. She dismissed 
Parker at the station. 

“ The theatre,” she said cheerfully, “ must wait. 
It would be more fun to have company, anyway. 
Wouldn’t I love to bring Agnes? Poor starved 
soul. She doesn’t go anywhere or do anything. 
But of course I can’t. I s’pose Miss Burton will 
be the one.” 

Nan, tired but happy, with her arms laden with 
bundles, stepped off the train at the trim, hedged 
little stone station and sank into a taxicab. 

“ Simply wonderful,” she murmured, resting her 
head against the seat and closing her eyes. “ Sim¬ 
ply wonderful to have reached the affluent stage in 
life where I can buy half a dozen toys and ride in a 
taxi and never turn a hair. Wonder how my babies 
have been behaving? ” 

With the thought came an inexplicable little feel¬ 
ing of uneasiness. Nan suddenly sat upright, fancy¬ 
ing a million disastrous accidents that could have 
occurred in her absence. 

“ Foolish of me,” she gathered her bundles up, 
ready to spring from the car the moment they 
reached the big house. “Nothing of course has 
happened. I forgot to tell Agnes not to let them 
slide down the haymow. Shirley got such a bad 
bump yesterday. But then—I don’t think she would 
150 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


anyway. Agnes is awfully careful—and she’s got 
good judgment-” 

The ride seemed endless. All the beauty of the 
day had gone for Nan as this nameless fear gripped 
her. She moved forward to the edge of the seat, 
tense, expectant, her money—the exact change— 
ready in her gloved hand. 

“Ah! At last!” 

Nan jumped out, thrust the money into the driv¬ 
er’s hands and dashed across the verandah, into the 
wide hall. 

For a second she stood still, breathlessly listen¬ 
ing. Faintly there came to her ears a screaming. 
With her heart in her mouth she ran for the stairs 
dropping her bundles before the bewildered Per¬ 
kins. 

“ Pick them up, Perkins, thank you,” Nan called 
back. She could not wait to ask him what the 
trouble was, though she had seen him preparing in 
his stiff slow way to say something. 

Up two steps at a time, down the long halls— 
Nan flew on wings. The screaming came louder 
and with it an incessant thumping, a familiar and 
sickening sound. She flung open the nursery door 
and sprang in. 

Agnes was in a low chair undressing a wide- 
eyed, frightened little Shirley who sat motionless 
151 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


watching Bobby. Agnes was crying and trembling, 
her hurrying fingers stumbling over buttons as she 
stripped Shirley, her eyes on the screaming boy. 

For Bobby lay on his stomach on the rug, yelling 
at the top of his lungs, beating his feet and his head 
rhythmically on the floor. 

“Bobby dear,” Agnes alternately begged and 
scolded. “Don’t, please! Get up!—You’ll hurt 
yourself—stop it-” 

Nan stared. Then she plunged upon Bob and 
jerked him up to a standing position. 

“Bob Wilson!” she commanded sternly. “Be¬ 
have yourself! ” 

But Bobby was beside himself, uncontrolled and 
uncontrollable, in the worst paroxysm of rage Nan 
had ever seen. Gasping, he struggled free of Nan’s 
little hands, rushed to the bay-window seat, slumped 
on the floor and flung his head back against the 
woodwork. 

Nan looked questioningly at Agnes who had put 
Shirley in bed and was standing now, wringing 
her hands, her plain face distorted in helpless de¬ 
spair. 

“ Oh, Miss Nan! ” she sobbed. “ I’m so glad 
you’ve come! He’s been going on like that for two 
hours now. I can’t stop him. First it’s the floor, 
then the wall, then the radiator—then he crawls to 
152 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


the chairs and whacks them with his head—hard. 
You can see—I thought he'd split it open. And 

yelling like that all the time-” 

“What started him?” Nan was pulling off 
gloves and hat, concerned eyes on the convulsed lit¬ 
tle figure of the lad who was so stupidly and stub¬ 
bornly hurting himself. She was not only afraid 
he would seriously injure himself but she was des¬ 
perately afraid she would not know how—would 
not be able to control him again. She had never 
seen him quite so far gone as this. 

“ Don’t know, ma’am.” Agnes dried her tears. 
“ I left them a minute and Shirley came running 
to tell me. I couldn’t understand her. Then she 
got frightened—and I guess she’s forgot by now.” 
Nan leaned over Shirley. 

“ Shirley dear,” she said coaxingly, “ tell Nan 
what made brother Bob angry. What did he want? 
What happened? Can you remember? ” 

But the tears only slid down the child’s face as 
she shook her head. Nan straightened up, looked 
at Bob, then her face set in resolute lines. 

“ Get me the little whip, Agnes, the one he uses 
on his hobby horse.” She spoke quietly but her 
voice was stern as Agnes had never heard it, her 
face quite white and her gray eyes black. With it 
in her hand she approached Bobby once again. For 
153 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


a second she paused, then with a shake of her head 
she laid it swiftly down and dragged Bobby into 
her lap as she sank into a low rocker. 

“ Why, Bobby boy! ” she murmured gently. 
“ Bobby dear! Tell Nan what’s the trouble-” 

Bobby’s square solid figure stiffened and leaped 
in Nan’s arms. His eyes rolled wildly—his breath 
came in terrible chunky noises. She could not hold 
him. He was again on the floor, crawling, purple 
and twitching to the radiator. Nan was really 
frightened. 

“ Why, Agnes, he acts—crazy,” she whispered. 

“Yes’m—oh, I know it,”—Agnes began crying 
again, “ and he’s been at it so long.” 

Nan drew a long breath, closed her lips firmly and 
picked up the whip. She stood over Bob, a stern, 
hard little figure and began mercilessly lashing his 
back as he crawled on the floor. 

“Oh! Miss Carter! Don’t!” Agnes cried. 
“Don’t whip him! It always meant they had to 
go! Please.” 

But Nan, though conscious of the words, was 
deaf to the entreaty; the exigency of the moment 
•—the need to control Bob was her whole concern. 
The means was immaterial and there was no al¬ 
ternative. 

For a second the screaming ceased. Then Bobby 
154 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


sprang upright and dashed to the wall, backing 
against it, his eyes blazing. Nan faced him, de¬ 
termined, with her steady gray eyes beating down 
Bob's defiance. 

“ Bob Wilson," she spoke slowly in the momen¬ 
tary pause, “ if you hit your head once again I’ll 
thrash you.” 

Bobby's mad glance shifted, then he opened his 
mouth and with yell after yell piercing the air, he 
flung his head back repeatedly against the wall. 

“ Help me hold him, Agnes.” 

Nan was white-lipped now and the two of them 
held Bob while Nan rained blow after blow on his 
heaving shoulders. The seconds seemed minutes, 
the minutes hours, but the whip came down stead¬ 
ily until the hysterical screams had ceased and a 
more natural broken cry came instead. 

Then Nan laid down her whip and gathered the 
queer little lad in her arms. 

“ Tuck Shirley under the covers again, Agnes,” 
she said quietly. “ And take my things in my room. 
I’ll manage now. Lie down, Shirley-girly, and go 
sleepy. Brother's all right now. Nan's going to 
rock him a while and then he'll go to bed too.” 

Through the sunset hour until dusk crept quietly 
into the room, Nan held the shaking boy, rocking 
gently and crooning soft lullabies. His little body 
155 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


shuddered less and less until at last he rested quietly 
in Nan's arms, white and downcast. Then Nan 
pressed her face against his tumbled black hair and 
stopped her rocking. Bobby never moved. 

“ Bobby-boy/’ Nan whispered, “ sit up and let 
Nan slip off your hotty-hot clothes." 

Bob, still silent, still with lowered eyes, obeyed. 
Nan softly pulled off the damp little pieces and 
slipped on his cool clean pajamas. Then she car¬ 
ried him to the bathroom and bathed his streaked 
face and dirty hands, brushed his hair back from 
his forehead and with him still in her arms went 
swiftly to his little bed beside Shirley's. 

Silently she laid him down, drew the covers over 
his still little figure and pinned them tight. Bobby 
never once raised his eyes and Nan, sick at heart, 
with a great lump in her throat, choking her, laid 
a soft hand on his face and turned away. At the 
door of his room she paused and looked back. 
Shirley was asleep but Bob's grave dark eyes met 
hers. In them was all the hurt and wonder and 
pleading that his baby soul was feeling. Swiftly 
Nan returned to his bed and knelt down, putting 
both arms around him. 

“Oh, Bobby-boy," she murmured. “Bob dar¬ 
ling—Nan loves you so." 

The grave eyes still regarded Nan's gray 
156 


ones 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and the look in them nearly broke her heart. They 
were measuring, weighing. If they finally repelled 
her, her weeks of good work and this night of 
agony were gone for naught. She would have lost 
Bob forever. She took the limp little hands, pray¬ 
ing for wisdom. 

“ Bob, listen,” she explained slowly. “ Nan hated 
to hurt Bob. Nan hated it so! But Nan had to. 
Bob dear, you are a little machine—just like an 
automobile, and your mind is the steering wheel. 
When you keep your mind on yourself—on your 
body—you can steer it where you want it to go. 
You can make it start or stop or turn around. Your 
mind can make your body stay in the road. But 
when you take your mind off your body it's like 
taking your hands off the steering wheel. Do you 
remember? You did it that day Daddy let you help 
him drive—the day we went sailing. You took your 
hands off without stopping the car or telling Dad 
and we nearly went in the ditch. Well, to-day, you 
took your mind off yourself and you went into the 
ditch. You didn't know what you were doing, Bob, 
and Nan had to make you find out. Nan had to 
help you get hold of your steering wheel again.” 

Nan paused, then she gave him her most im¬ 
pelling smile and gathered the little hands tighter. 

“ But I do believe, Bob, that you’ll never let go 

157 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


of your steering wheel again. I do believe you’ve 
done it for the last time. I do believe you’re big 
enough now to run yourself alone.” She waited, 
then swiftly: 

“ Big enough, Bob ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The little word came with Bobby’s old quaint 
deliberation. 

“ Yes, I am. You aren’t ever going to whip me 
again.” 

“ No, because Bob’s never going to let go of the 
wheel again, are you ? ” 

“ No.” 

Nan leaned closer and kissed the serious little 
face. 

“ Good-night, dear—Nan’s big boy.” 

Bobby sighed gently, tucked one hand under his 
head and said sweetly: 

“ Good-night, Nan.” 

A Waterloo without defeat for either side. For 
Nan had won victory over Bob and Bob had dug 
out of the ruins a vision of victory for himself. 

In her room Nan flung herself on her bed. She 
cried a little and laughed a little and after a while 
she grew very, very still. She was remembering. 
She had promised Bruce Wilson ages ago—how 
many ages it seemed—that she would never lift a 
158 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


hand against Bob. In the terrible emergency she 
had broken her promise, and in her relief over the 
results she had not recalled it. But now realiza¬ 
tion came stinging hard. She had whipped Bob 
cruelly. She had failed a trust, and Bruce must 
know. 

Nan’s suffering for the next two hours was acute, 
made more so by her feeling of helplessness. How 
was she ever to make Bruce see that it was the only 
thing she could do? He hadn’t been there. And 
he was adamant in his belief about corporal pun¬ 
ishment Nan recalled now his words and looks and 
voice as he had sat in his office that day of the in¬ 
terview, and the two other times she had brought 
the subject up. And as memory awakened Nan’s 
heart sank lower and lower. 

She walked about through her rooms and out 
onto the porch. 

“ I have succeeded with Bob—and he will think 
I have failed. He will never understand.” Nan’s 
thoughts stabbed to her heart with fresh pain. 
“ This is the end of everything and it should rightly 
be just the beginning.” 

The end of Bob’s sweet growth. For someone 
else would come who didn’t love and couldn’t un¬ 
derstand. The end of seeing Shirley! The end of 
knowing Bruce—ah, and that was just at its be- 
159 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ginning. The end of comfort and beauty and lov¬ 
ing service. 

Her little hands were wrung together, and her 
eyes closed in her pale face. Then they flew open 
and stared widely, darkly ahead at the future. 

« He’s got to know. There’s no question about 
that. And I’ve got to tell him now, to-night, right 
away. There’s no question about that.” Nan set 
her lips and went back to her bedroom. 

Her dinner tray was brought and Nan waved it 
away. She spent that hour dressing herself. With¬ 
out knowing what she chose she picked out a gray 
silk dress that matched her eyes. It was cut in 
severely simple lines and added a few years to her 
girlishness. Then, with her eyes on the clock she 
sat down and waited. 

Bruce would be through his meal by quarter of 
eight surely. Until then she must think what to say 
—how to approach him- 

But Nan’s mind refused to work. Worn out with 
her struggle with Bob and with the aftermath of 
bitter realization that her act had its consequences 
to be faced, all thought ceased. She was conscious 
of only one sensation—dread. Her eyes were dark 
and big in a face suddenly small and white and 
they watched without winking the creeping pace 
of the hands on the clock. 

160 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


It was twenty minutes of eight when something 
broke loose in Nan. She jumped up, breathing 
hard, and a second later a small figure was slipping 
like a gray ghost down the stairs to Bruce Wilson's 
den. 


161 




CHAPTER X 


At the foot of the stairs Nan paused, a hand at 
her white throat where a tiny pulse was beating 
wildly. She must regain her breath, her composure 
before meeting Bruce. She must be cool and as¬ 
sured, for any appearance of fright would be a 
tacit admission of wrong committed. Nan slipped 
an arm about the newel post and clung there on 
the lowest step until the hard hammering of her 
heart ceased. Then with the seconds slipping by she 
stood yet longer trying to marshal her thoughts in 
some order. Up-stairs, during that dreadful hour 
of waiting, she had been unable. But now, at the 
last moment, her brain cleared. 

Before her the house lay in a profound quiet, 
and as on that first night of her arrival, its beauty 
left a chill impression. A house without a soul, Nan 
thought, and there leaped to her mind another 
thought—a man without a heart. Was Bruce? 

Would Bruce overlook all she had accomplished 
and adhere sternly to a course of conduct he had 
laid down in accordance with his beliefs? Was he 
iron bound by those? Could Nan shake him from 
them ? Or would he be gentle, tolerant, quiet,—as 
she had seen him with the children, with the old 
woman at the farm, with the servants ? 

162 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Before her eyes flashed a picture of Bruce facing 
her across his desk at his office. His tones rang in 
her ears, steely, uncompromising. His face was set 
in determined lines. There came another,—Bruce 
lighting a cigarette, his profile from the high cheek¬ 
bone down to his chin, hard, unrelenting. And 
another,—Bruce beside her in the automobile, his 
eyes piercing, his voice harsh with impatience. This 
was Bruce. Or was Bruce the other man she knew, 
—the one with the tender smile and eyes of kind¬ 
ness? Nan shivered and did not know. 

“ It always meant they had to go.” Agnes' words 
with an unspoken thought left in the air. 

Nan became aware suddenly of an exterior in¬ 
fluence pressing on her consciousness. She looked 
up and about her, jerked suddenly from her 
thoughts. The stillness of the great house seemed 
a menace. In the big hall and vast rooms on either 
side not a sound was to be heard, not a clock, nor 
a whispered breath, nor a footstep. The hush 
spread about her, clutching her with cold fingers, 
an oppressive haunting thing. Then to Nan’s 
strained and listening ears came a soft thudding 
sound, a sound as of ghostly footsteps passing by. 

Nan turned her head. The footsteps were 
marching down the stairs past her, and were lost in 
the stillness beyond by the great front door. They 
163 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


were the footsteps of those other women who had 
come as she had come, had served as she had served 
and had gone as she would go. 

The slurred footsteps ceased and then, because 
Nan’s ears were attuned to fantastic noises, there 
came out of the silence of the beautiful still rooms 
the sound of fairy laughter. Not tinkling, silvery 
laughter this time, but shrill, discordant voices with 
a jeering note of triumph ringing high. 

“ Ha! Ha! ” the Hard Luck Fairies cried. 
“ Thought you were rid of us, didn’t you ? Thought 
you had a dream worth while! Thought it was com¬ 
ing true and all you had to do was live and laugh. 
Ha! Ha! Well, listen, Nan Carter. It never will 
come true because you've left out the most impor¬ 
tant part of your dream! ” 

And Nan, whose eyes were wide and deep with 
dreaming, Nan of the believing heart, gripped the 
newel post with both hands and waited for more, 
then she suddenly flung up her head. 

“ My foolish imagination. It’ll gallop off with 
me some day.” 

With clenched hands at her sides she spoke aloud. 

“ Those other women may have made mistakes 
but I haven’t. I know I was right. There was 
nothing else to do but whip Bob. I’ll make Bruce 
believe it.” 


164 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


The other thought, that the fairies had left with 
her last, she tucked back in a wee cobwebby corner 
in the attic part of her brain. It wasn’t important. 

At the door of Bruce’s den, Nan paused again. 
But this time it was not thoughts of herself that 
checked her. For Bruce sat in a deep chair, bent 
forward, his elbows on his knees and his mind 
turned inside out on his face. Nan could not sur¬ 
prise him with that expression bared to her eyes. 
Never in the world would he want her to see what 
she saw. Trouble, anxiety—yes—but the searing 
that bitter memories bring and the pain that hope¬ 
less longing leaves. Nan drew back in the shadows. 

The rustle of her dress brought him to his feet 
and the ring in his voice shattered her composure. 

“ You! ” 

Dumbly, Nan let him draw her into the room, 
let him exclaim over her white, tired appearance, 
over her cold hands, over her foolishness in trying 
to cram so much shopping into one day, over her 
nonsensical conscientiousness in dismissing Parker 
and taking that long ride home in the crowded 
trains. 

Nan dropped in the big chair he pulled forward 
and, still in silence, watched him light a fire that was 
laid ready to blaze. The night was cold and the 
furnace was not yet started. 

165 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Have you wood in your room. Miss Nan?” 
Bruce was on one knee, pushing and pulling the 
logs about until the sparks rushed upward in a 
frenzy. 

“ Plenty, thank you.” 

“ We’ll have John start the furnace fire to-mor¬ 
row. The house is getting damp and gloomy. 
There! That’s better.” 

Nan suddenly sat forward, her knuckles showing 
white as she clasped her knees. 

“ I wish you’d sit down, right there, and stop 
being so kind and happy,” she said. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” There was instant con¬ 
cern in Bruce’s voice. He dropped in the chair she 
indicated and leaned forward. Nan steadied her¬ 
self, fighting back tears that threatened to deluge 
her. 

“ I’ve broken a promise to you, Mr. Wilson.” 
In her effort to control her voice it was hard. 
“ I’ve whipped Bobby.” 

There was a dead silence for a second. Then, 
as realization came, Bruce’s face set, his eyes nar¬ 
rowed and blazed with anger. Nan met him with 
a level-eyed regard. His battling attitude cooled 
her as his consideration had upset her. She would 
say no more unless he asked for it. If he was the 
sort who condemned without a hearing then she 
166 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


could take her punishment without a sound. She 
would no more ask for a chance to explain than, 
given it and proved guilty, she would ask for 
mercy. 

For a long minute their looks held, Nan's gray 
gaze steady and cool before the hot one of the man 
before her. Then Bruce drew a long breath, rose 
and stood by the mantelpiece. With fingers that 
trembled he picked up his pipe and held it. 

“ Tell me how it happened, please," he said curtly. 

Without moving, with her direct gaze still on 
him, Nan told him. The story held the facts, stuck 
grimly to the truth and stopped when Nan had 
won Bob back to quiet in her arms. But because 
Nan was proud, hurt by his instant antagonism, and 
terribly afraid of losing her control, it was a color¬ 
less tale. She would not say one thing that might 
seem to appeal for forgiveness. She would give the 
story to him honestly and leave him to judge. He 
had his memories of her behavior with the chil¬ 
dren. 

When she had finished she dropped her eyes to 
her hands and waited. The fire crackled and blazed 
in merry unconcern over the fate that hung in the 
balance in the room. 

“ I am more than sorry this has happened/' Bruce 
began at last, in a cold, quiet voice. “If you had 
167 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


been here I doubt if it would have. That holds no 
rebuke, however. Please understand that.” 

Nan shrugged. 

“ Perhaps it wouldn’t have happened to-day, but 
it was bound to come; you remember I warned you.” 

“ Possibly,” Bruce felt his way. “ Possibly if 
you hadn’t come home tired, you wouldn’t have 
found it necessary to strike so soon. Weariness 
and impatience go hand in hand.” 

Nan’s quiet look scorched. 

“ I did not strike Bob in anger. I knew what I 
was doing.” 

“You did not strike in anger, you say. You 
struck deliberately, calculatingly, knowing my feel¬ 
ing in the matter, cognizant of the fact that you had 
given a promise and were breaking it.” 

Nan made no answer. 

“ You remember I told you the effect that whip¬ 
pings had on Bob. They stiffen his spirit, increase 
his rebellion. They don’t bend it. You remember, 
Miss Carter? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Still Nan would not look up. If she had, if she 
had seen the misery in the man’s eyes, his aching 
desire for some explanation she would have given 
it. Finally his voice came again, cold. “ I can’t 
understand your action, Miss Carter. It goes con- 
168 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


trary to all I have seen of you. Can you justify it 
to any degree ? ” 

Nan jumped to her feet. 

“ Please dismiss me and have it over with,” she 
cried. Her cheeks were blazing now, her eyes black. 
“ Or shall I tender my resignation ? ” 

They faced each other, the man grim, the girl 
quivering with defiance, pride and a hurt that had 
gone deep. She steadied a trembling lip between 
her teeth, and refused to wink back bright tears. 
Bruce turned away quietly. 

“ Sit down. Miss Carter. You are running ahead 
—jumping to conclusions. We haven’t talked this 
thing out yet” 

“ There’s nothing more to be said.” 

“ Pardon me. There’s a great deal more to be 
said. I haven’t finished and you have left a ques¬ 
tion unanswered.” 

Gently but firmly Bruce took her by the shoul¬ 
der and pushed her back in her chair. Nan wished 
he wouldn’t. His kindness was too upsetting. Still 
it was kindness,—just what she had hoped for. 
And he was showing open-mindedness, although he 
was sticking as determinedly to his beliefs as she 
was to hers. He was as earnest and honest in his 
conviction that she was wrong as she was that she 
was right. But he was giving her a chance to con- 
169 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


vince him, making her take it, in fact. It was splen¬ 
didly fair. She must meet him as fairly. 

“ You asked me-? ” 

“ Why you decided to whip Bob? What brought 
you to your decision if it wasn’t a hasty one made 
in anger or out of weariness ? ” 

“ Why, Mr. Wilson, haven’t I made you under¬ 
stand? Bob was nearly in convulsions. We none 
of us knew what he wanted. If I had, I should 
probably have given in to him as before. But I 
didn’t know anything except that I was terribly 
afraid.” 

Her voice deepened. Bruce waited. 

“ I didn’t see any alternative. He had to be 
stopped. There was no time to think whether I was 
right or wrong. Don’t you see? ” Bruce was still 
on his feet, his back to the fire. He began lighting 
his pipe slowly. 

“ And can you tell me what effect you think this 
whipping has had? Could you see that it brought 
any results other than a temporary control? What 
I mean is this—how many more times do you think 
it will be necessary to whip Bob before you can 
teach him that those tempers of his are useless and 
harmful? ” 

A smile flitted over Nan’s face. It was like sun¬ 
light on frost 


170 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Bob has had his last temper, I do truly believe, 
Mr. Wilson,” she said. “ He knows now how 
wrong it is.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ He told me so.” 

Bruce lit his pipe, blew a great cloud of smoke in 
the air, then looked down at Nan. Back in his face 
again was the dear familiar look of kindness and 
gentleness and his voice was tender as he smilingly 
spoke. 

“ You didn’t half tell your story. And you nearly 
ran off with the best of it unsaid. What happened, 
Miss Nan, after you rocked Bob to quiet in your 
arms ? ” 

“ I washed him and undressed him and put him 
to bed.” Wilson’s memory colored the succinct re¬ 
cital. He nodded. “And then I whispered good¬ 
night and got to my door. Then I looked back and 
there was Bob staring at me-” 

Nan’s eyes filled with tears. She brushed them 
impatiently away. 

“ So I went back and we made up,” she ended 
simply. 

“ That must have been a sweet moment.” 

Nan flashed him a surprised glance. He sensed 
then the tragedy of punishment, the ecstasy of rec¬ 
onciliation. 


171 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ It was precious/’ she said softly. “ I ”—she 
sent him the straight sweet look that was so appeal¬ 
ing—“ I prayed for wisdom. Moments for making 
havoc or creating strength and beauty are so short. 
I didn’t want to make a mistake. There’s a lot of 
praying in this mother business and a lot of bank¬ 
ing on luck. And then you—go it blind. You never 
know till babies are grown up whether you’ve been 
right or not. It’s a long time to wait. But to¬ 
night—well, God didn’t keep me waiting so long.” 

Nan’s voice—sweet, tender, musing, played on 
the strings of the man’s heart. He stared at her 
as though he were seeing something unreal. Nan, 
with eyes on the blaze, went on. She told him, al¬ 
most word for word, what she had told Bob, and 
without realizing it she made her appeal as strongly 
to the man as she had to the boy. She was living 
over again the tenseness of that time when the 
making of Bob rested for a wonderful moment en¬ 
tirely with her. 

When she had finished she looked up gravely. 
Bruce held out both hands and Nan with amaze¬ 
ment and bewilderment in her face, rose and laid 
hers in them. 

“You—little mother,” he said. Then he 
stopped. The color swept slowly up into Nan’s 
face under Bruce’s long look, and her honest gaze 
172 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


dropped before the warmth of his. She drew her 
hands away slowly. 

“ Then—Fm not to go? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ No, you are not to go. Not until you choose 
to yourself. I’ve hunted too many years for a 
woman like you to let you go now easily.” 

“ But I broke a promise.” 

“ Which I had no right to exact. I should hare 
trusted you. You told me so that day in the office. 
I do now. I leave Bob to you in the future with a 
serene mind. You have more wisdom than I in 
your management of him.” 

“ More love than wisdom, Mr. Wilson.” 

His defeat was complete and he was crowning 
her with laurels. Nan should have felt elation but 
she was aware only of a great weariness. She 
turned to go. The tears that she had held back so 
long were crowding again. She wanted to get to 
her rooms and have the relief of a cry. 

“ I wish you'd stay.” 

The tone as much as the words turned Nan about 
again. Here was need calling to her, for—she did 
not know what. She saw Bruce again as she had 
glimpsed him that moment before entering the 
room and she came back swiftly and stood before 
him. 


173 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I was sorry to add to your troubles to-night. 
I know you are having others.” 

Bruce made no answer as he pulled another deep 
leather-cushioned chair forward, and the two of 
them sat for a moment in silence. The fire had 
fallen to a sleepy, creepy flame. There was brood¬ 
ing in the room a spirit of sweetness, of under¬ 
standing, of comradeliness. Nan’s head dropped 
back against the chair, and she snuggled herself 
against the wide arm. 

“ Do you mind staying? You’re so tired.” 

“ Mind! Oh, no, I love it.” 

Then impulsively Nan stretched out a warm little 
hand and laid it on Bruce’s arm. 

“What is it? Didn’t you call me back to tell 
me? I can’t stand seeing trouble on your face and 
being kept out of it. I haven’t much of a head for 
business but just talking helps sometimes.” 

She gave a little pat to the arm that lay under her 
hand, then drew it swiftly away. 

Bruce started to speak, stopped, then started 
again. 

“ I’d like to, Miss Nan. I’d like to tell you all 
about it. I am having troubles, of various kinds, 
but—I can’t tell you yet. Will you just believe that 
I will when I can,—as soon as I can ? And will you 
believe too, that the knowledge of your interest and 
174 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


sympathy—and faith”—he paused, “is a sustain¬ 
ing hand to a man in deep water ? ” 

“ If I could ever help, you’d let me? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Promise?” 

“ Yes.” 

There in the firelit room a sense of security as to 
Nan’s future stole over her. She was sure now as 
she had never been before, that with Bruce giving 
her such complete trust, and with a clear under¬ 
standing between them, nothing could so upset them 
again. She was here for keeps and no padding 
footsteps or fairy laughter would ever again frighten 
her. She laughed aloud at her recollection of those 
moments in the great still hall, and when Bruce 
asked her the reason she told him. 

“ I was foolish,” she said frankly. 

“ You are imaginative but you are brave.” 

“ Brave! But there wasn’t any bravery about 
it There was nothing else to be done. Honorable, 
perhaps, but not brave.” 

She might have kept silence, however, an honor¬ 
able silence. He watched her narrowly as he said 
this. She might have pledged Agnes to secrecy. 
Then when weeks or months had proved her right, 
she could have come to him in triumph. 

Nan’s eyes flashed scornfully. But that wasn’t 

175 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


right It was deceitful. No, she wasn’t made like 
that. She had to play square, above all things. 

But there was a right in it, he argued, leaning 
toward her. Let him tell her. She was taking a 
chance, when she came to him, taking a chance of his 
anger, her dismissal. If she believed she had done 
right, she should not have run the risk of Bob’s 
losing her. It wasn’t fair to him. Supposing he 
hadn’t understood. 

“ I know. I thought of all that. But for me— 
there was simply no question. What would you 
have thought of me if I had done as you suggest? ” 
she questioned suddenly. 

He was silent at that, then answered slowly: 

“ I think, I really think I would have thought 
just the same of you as I do now.” 

“ No! ” Nan cried. He would in his secret heart 
have thought her cowardly. He’d despise her for 
it. She would despise herself. A queer light came 
into his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders. 

“We have to agree to disagree very often, don’t 
we?” he smiled. 

It was almost midnight when Nan suddenly 
jumped to her feet. 

“ I had no idea so much time had gone. Where 
did it go to anyway? I’m sure it hasn’t been half 
an hour since I started to leave.” 

176 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Bruce held out his hand. 

“ I appreciate your staying. You’ve driven off 
my Hard Luck Fairies for an evening.” 

“ Do they hoot around often ? ” 

“ Pretty often these days.” 

His voice was tired. Nan pressed his hand and 
murmured softly, “ I’m sorry; good-night.” 

“ Good-night, Miss Nan.” 

It was a matter of moments only for Nan to slip 
off her clothes and creep into bed. But it was a 
matter of hours before she could close her eyes and 
stop her mind from racing. What was the matter 
with her? Was it excitement or sheer weariness 
that kept her eyes wide in the darkness ? It wasn’t 
weariness, for she felt as light as a feather and all 
rested inside her. It was such a relief to know 
that the real Bruce was not the grim, unrelenting 
man she had seen occasionally, but a fair-minded, 
tender-hearted, kind friend. He would always be 
that to her now—always. For there was nothing 
that could possibly come between them. She was 
glad she liked him, and she did like him tremen¬ 
dously. She only wished he’d let her share his 
troubles. She wanted to be in on them, wanted to 
worry with him. She wasn’t the kind of friend 
who could just share sunshine and laughter. She 
wanted to share—everything. 

177 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


And then Nan’s cheeks flamed so that she pulled 
the sheets up to cool them and she resolutely shut 
her eyes to herself and decided she had thought 
long enough. With everything settled and every¬ 
body happy there was no sense in staying awake 
wishing for troubles. That’s what she was doing. 


178 




CHAPTER XI 


The fairies had apparently succeeded in collect¬ 
ing a multitude of colors, for October burst upon 
the scene in a riot of extravagant glowing tints. 
The woods were afire for days and the splendor 
of nature’s last effort to give warmth to a shivering 
world was inspiring. It was a month of jubilant 
exhilaration for Nan such as she never remembered 
experiencing. On days such as these nothing on 
earth could go wrong. God was surely in His 
heaven—approving vastly. 

Nan forgot she was a big sister and became a 
little one, almost as little a person as Bob. But in 
spite of her drops to the level of childhood, her 
hold over the boy was now firmly established and 
unquestioned. Bob adored Nan and obeyed her 
implicitly. She found this new attitude of his sweet 
and at the same time a bit pathetic. However, it 
was part of his development. So, the need for 
sternness gone and with Bruce’s eye less and less 
upon her—his affairs were still needing a constantly 
guiding hand, it seemed—she flung herself into the 
business of playing with the children with the same 
earnestness she had given to the business of loving 
them. In her gray-blue sport suit, with an orange 
scarf and cap daring the leaves to do better, she 
179 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


was a vivid and arresting figure as she romped with 
Bob and Shirley in the heaped-up leaves that were 
raked especially for their joy in scattering. 

They played house. Each had his own special 
pile, and each dug a door, made a “ nesty ” room 
and took turns entertaining the other two. They 
played Old Witch and spread the leaves into weird 
and fantastic cobwebby prisons where Nan, always 
the realistic wicked witch, fiercely guarded a pris¬ 
oner—usually Shirley—whom Bob sometimes ex¬ 
citingly managed to free. They buried treasures in 
the deeps of the dusty, dried leaves and thrilled or 
despaired in the search for it. And finally one 
snappy evening in November when a tempestuous 
wind had wooed the last bright leaves from the tree 
tops, they had stood in the swift falling darkness 
and had set the bonfires themselves. Nan's cap and 
hair had caught all the gold from the flames, her 
scarf was twisted about her neck below glowing 
cheeks, her skirt was whipped back by a stiff 
breeze, and she was standing, head upflung, revel¬ 
ling in the tang of the air, the snap and crackle and 
smell of the burning brush, the fearless rush of 
sparks to the heavens. 

Out of the shadows behind her came Bruce. She 
looked, he was thinking, like a sprite herself, a 
saucy sprite who, if she cared to, might ride off 
180 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


on her rake in the wind, should she not choose to 
play with him. 

But before he reached her there was a cry from 
Bob, who stood as if paralyzed with pointing finger, 
and the two grown-ups saw Shirley racing toward 
them, a white face and frightened brown eyes 
straining away from little bright curling flames that 
leaped up over her shoulders. 

In a second she was safe. The coat was on the 
ground, the red tongues of flame stamped out. 
Shirley, still white, was shaking in Nan’s arms and 
Nan and Bruce on their knees with Shirley between 
them, stared with a silent solemn thankfulness at 
each other. 

“ Not hurt a bit.” Nan’s reassuring voice trem¬ 
bled as she made a swift examination. 

Bruce passed his hands over his little girl. They 
met Nan’s and even in that moment that had held 
such awful terror, she was conscious of a quick, 
warm thrill at his touch. 

Shirley, an imaginative child always, kept fear 
with her. She began to whimper. Her eyes were 
fright-filled even after the return to the nursery and 
the telling of bedtime stories. In order to distract 
her, Nan suggested to Bruce that they take a long- 
talked of trip to the Natural Museum the following 
day. It would be Wednesday. Surely Bruce could 
181 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


take a half day after all these strenuous weeks of 
devotion to work. 

It was settled they should go and Bob’s eager 
questions served to swerve his little sister’s mind 
from herself. So, before a blazing fire with Shirley 
held tenderly close in his arms, and Bob an eager 
listener close at his elbow, Bruce tried to tell them 
some of the many sights they would see on the mor¬ 
row. Nan, moving silently about the room, picking 
up fallen clothes, sent sidelong approving glances 
at the group before the wide hearth. How more 
than well her effort to unite Bruce and his chil¬ 
dren in understanding and love had repaid her. 
No matter now how long he was absent from the 
nursery, when he came back it was always with as¬ 
surance, with the restfulness of going on where he 
had left off. No longer were there the agonizing 
efforts to begin. He was waited for and welcomed. 

“ We are to come to your office then at three,” 
Nan said when prayers were done. “ Parker will 
bring us ? ” 

“ Yes. I shall be waiting for you.” 

“ It was a fortunate thought.” Nan cast a slant¬ 
ing look at Shirley who tucked in her bed was se¬ 
renely chattering of anticipated pleasures. 

“ Yes. It did the trick. And I’ve promised it 
to them for a long time. I’m glad to get at it. I’m 
182 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


rather curious to see their reaction.” He held out a 
warm, strong hand. “ Good-night, Miss Nan.” 

“ Good-night.” 

“ How quick you were.” 

“ I! You were there before me.” 

He smiled down at her. 

“ It's not a thing to quarrel about—just a thing 
to be immensely thankful about.” 

“ That beautiful baby face—I was so frightened,” 
Nan murmured. 

Bruce was still holding Nan's hand. In his eyes 
was the dear gentleness she so loved to see. 

“ And to-morrow. The first thing we’ll go to 
look at-” he began, in a comforting tone. 

Nan laughed and pulled her hand away. 

“ I’m all right.” 

“ But you mustn’t think about it any more. It’s 
all over—well over.” 

“ Yes, I know.” There was a mistiness in Nan’s 
wide eyes. “ I shan’t be silly. Good-night.” 

A gray day, decisively insisting that winter was 
upon them; a hint of snow in the thick, slow mov¬ 
ing clouds; a still secretive bite in the heavy air. 
Nan buttoned Shirley’s coat up close about her 
neck and wished she had slipped on a little sweater 
underneath. It was going to be cold and Shirley 
was sneezing. Thank goodness the car was closed 
183 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and they wouldn’t be out much. The children had 
been so well all the fall, she had wanted to make it 
a record winter with no colds. 

“ I’ll just dose her up when we get home,” Nan 
decided with an anxious eye on the unconscious 
Shirley. 

But the dose was forgotten in the fun of hearing 
the day talked over. Shirley had shivered away 
from the stuffed birds, which, for all their likeness 
to life, she insisted were “ all b’woke.” It was her 
way of saying dead. Bob had silently and absorb- 
edly moved from one room to another storing up 
his impressions in the safety of his mind. Nan was 
sorry Bruce had been kept in his den on their re¬ 
turn, by one of those annoyingly persistent business 
men. If he could only have followed them to the 
nursery he would have gotten what he wanted, 
what she herself was so much enjoying—Bob’s slow 
thoughtful comments on a new experience. His 
questions were intelligent, extremely so, and Nan 
had a sudden awed and wondering glimpse of a 
quickening mind. 

“ Now, children dears, listen to Nan. You 
mustn’t talk any more. No, not a teeny bit. It’s 
frightfully late for little folks and the Sandman 
wants to finish his job and go to bed himself. So 
hushabye.” 


184 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan slipped out of the room and into hers. Sev- 
eral returns for admonishing reminders were 
necessary, but finally there was a silence in the 
nursery and Nan, after a hastily scribbled note 
to Betty, made herself ready for bed, with a 
tired sigh. She dropped instantly into a deep 
and dreamless sleep and had been asleep she 
did not know how long when she suddenly 
wakened. 

“ How queer/’ she was sitting up in the dark¬ 
ness, her heart knocking hard and fast. “ I know 
I heard something. I must have.” 

It came again. A short hoarse sound like the 
bark of a dog. Nan was out of bed in an instant, 
flinging a soft warm wrapper of blue about her, 
thrusting her feet into blue slippers and ringing for 
Agnes. 

The low light, switched on in the nursery, re¬ 
vealed Bob sitting up in bed, staring in frightened 
sleepiness at Shirley. She was in a paroxysm of 
coughing, those fearful hard barks that sent fright 
to Nan’s heart. 

She shut the window, poked ineffectively at a few 
embers on the hearth, and turned back to the strug¬ 
gling child in the bed. 

“ Stay still, Bob,” her voice over her shoulder 
was quiet, commanding. “ Stay under the covers. 

185 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


It's cold in the room. Nan will take care of Shir¬ 
ley.” 

Agnes appeared, an unlovely vision. Nan flung 
orders at her as she gathered a gasping, frightened, 
fighting Shirley into her arms and wrapped her 
about with an eider-down blanket. 

“ Find some ipecac—in the medicine closet in the 
bathroom. And a teaspoon. Shirley has the 
croup.” 

Agnes disappeared. Nan’s gaze searched Shir¬ 
ley’s face. Another strangling spell was coming. 
In the midst of it Agnes returned, pulling her dingy 
gray wrapper about her as her eyes fell on Bruce 
entering. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” he asked. 

“ Croup.” Nan was brief, her look still bent on 
Shirley, her hand held out to Agnes for the bottle. 
“ One teaspoon, Agnes.” 

“ There is none, Miss Carter.” 

Nan caught back a cry, flashed a look at Bruce, 
saw he was still dressed and said instantly: 

“ Get your car. Drive as fast as you can to the 
drug-store. Wake them up. Get me a bottle of 
ipecac. Shirley has the croup—real thing. 
Hurry.” 

Awful moments followed, moments that covered 
several eternities. Agnes replenished the fire and 
186 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


started the croup kettle burning while Nan held the 
agonized child. Each fearful attack lasted longer 
and left her weaker, and Nan, with eyes on a white, 
still face, strained her ears for the sound of a motor 
humming back under the window. 

“ Miss Nan! ain't it awful? ” 

“ Hush.” Nan was stem, remembering the silent 
frightened boy in the bed whose white face and 
black eyes gleamed fitfully in the back of her con¬ 
sciousness. “ Has she never had this before? ” 

“ No’m, not that I know of. And she was all 
right when she went to bed.” 

“ It always comes that way, swift as death in the 
night. Let me try rubbing her chest. It won’t do 
any good but it’s doing something. Then go to the 
window, Agnes, and listen.” 

Shirley burst suddenly into another tearing 
cough, struggled frantically for breath, flinging the 
comforter to the floor and finally sinking back in 
Nan’s arms with her beautiful brown eyes rolled up 
till only the whites showed and her forehead broken 
out in a cold sweat. Only for a second. Another 
paroxysm followed close and Nan, her breath com¬ 
ing with low, sobbing noises, prayed as she had 
never prayed before. Shirley fell into a limpness 
as still as death itself, only to struggle out again 
as the motor buzzed by under the window. 

187 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Almost instantly Brace was in the room on his 
knees by Nan, measuring out with a steady hand 
the teaspoon of ipecac that he held until the ex¬ 
hausted child stopped her coughing. Then, quickly, 
with Nan holding the rolling head, he poured it 
down her throat. 

“ Another.” 

The fire was the only moving thing in the room. 
It leaped and danced, a lively merry soul, bent on 
cheer and comfort. It sent long black shadows 
racing up and down the walls, set little ones to bob¬ 
bing on the ceiling, cast a rosiness over the three 
marble figures grouped close to it. 

Bruce was still on his knees, his eyes like Nan’s, 
glued on the waxen face of the little girl. The lids 
lifted, Shirley stirred, rose to another fight for 
breath and fell back again. 

Bruce looked at Nan. Her braid of gold hair 
had fallen over her shoulder. Unaware of her 
movement she flung it back out of the way. Her 
blue eyes were black, fixed on Shirley’s face. 

“Can’t we do more than this?” the man whis¬ 
pered. 

“ Another teaspoon while she’s quiet.” 

Brace measured it out, Shirley swallowed bravely, 
lay for a few moments longer, then was seized again. 
But this time there was relief. The medicine had 
188 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


done its work, and the phlegm that had nearly 
choked the child to death came up in thick clots. 

“ Thank heaven.” Nan’s little whisper held a 
tremble. Her eyes relieved and reassuring met 
Bruce’s anxious ones for a swift second. “ The 
worst is over now. There’s no more danger.” 

It was only a half hour later that Shirley was 
laid back in her little bed, exhausted, white but 
breathing naturally again. Agnes was dismissed 
and Bob was half asleep in his bed. Bruce turned 
from piling a couple of new logs on the fire to see 
Nan on her knees by the little bed that held Shirley, 
her head on her folded arms. 

Bruce was at her side in an instant lifting her 
with strength and comfort in his touch. 

“ Child!” 

He stared with a shock of dismay and amaze¬ 
ment at a Nan whose gay brightness was crumpled, 
whose calm courage was melted into tears. 

“ I know.” Nan dabbed at her eyes with the 
handkerchief he gave her. “ I’m silly—when every¬ 
thing’s all right,” she glanced at Shirley who had 
closed weary eyes, “ but twice in two days-” 

She flung up her head, steadied herself and smiled 
bravely. 

“ She’s as dear to me as the other—even if I 
haven’t worked and worried and fought with her. 

189 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


I didn’t know, you see, till to-night. What time is 
it ? ” she asked suddenly. 

“ Half-past one.” 

“ And you haven’t been to bed ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ I was finishing a little writing when I heard the 
excitement here and came up.” 

Nan looked at him and suddenly saw care carved 
in his face. There was no explaining the contrac¬ 
tion of her heart as she perceived the weary lines 
about the kind eyes and the straight, steady mouth, 
but she suddenly laid a hand on his arm. 

“ Please go now—at once. There’s no need to 
worry any longer. I shall hear the slightest sound 
and will call you if I need you.” 

Bruce’s face lifted a moment from its look of 
strain and in that moment Nan’s hand was carried 
swiftly and gently to his cheek. Then he was gone, 
but there went with him a vision that he took back 
to his room, a vision that kept getting between him 
and his pen as he strove to finish the business that 
should be done to-night; a vision of a slim, wide- 
eyed girl, with a blue dressing-gown as deep as her 
eyes holding her sweetness, hair splashing gold 
against a white throat, and a look of divine tender¬ 
ness on her uplifted face. 

An hour moved by; another started and had half 
190 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


crept on its course when Bruce looked up suddenly, 
peered into the soft darkness beyond the circle of 
light on his desk and wondered if his mind or his 
eyes were playing tricks. 

For there stood Nan, slim, wide-eyed, tender— 
and a little frightened. In her blue wrapper with 
her hair splashing gold down it over her shoulder, 
she moved timidly toward him. 

“ Didn’t I tell you—ages ago—to go to bed ? ” 
she asked. Then suddenly—“ Oh, Bruce, what is 
it?” 

Bruce was on his feet staring down at her, still 
unbelieving. 

“ I went to look at Shirley. She was sleeping 
beautifully, but it was so hot in the room I thought 
I’d open the door into the hall. I didn’t dare open 
the window and let this night air in on her. I saw 
a light down-stairs—I thought you might be sitting 
up—worrying—so I came to tell you you needn’t 
Shirley’s all right.” 

She moved a little closer and finished bravely: 

“ But you’re worrying just the same, and you’ve 
got to tell me why— now” 

Bruce drew a long breath. Nan’s eyes held him, 
demanding an answer. Finally it came quietly, so 
quietly Nan could not at first believe the words held 
any tragedy. 


191 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ My business has gone to smash. There's noth¬ 
ing left." 

The clock ticked silently. A log fell apart with 
a soft thud. Nan pushed her hair off her forehead 
and asked as quietly as he had spoken: 

“ Nothing? ” 

“ A few shreds of silk." 

“ Well, what does it mean? " 

“Mean? Here, sit down. You're trembling. 
Are you cold ? Come over to the fire. I know, it's 
an unconscionable hour and you're in a wrapper. 
But you trust me and I understand you. Thank 
God, you're here. You always do the right 
thing at the right time. How do you manage 
it?" 

Nan kept her wide eyes on him, sitting on the 
arm of the big chair and staring at this Bruce whose 
quiet composure was gone, who was talking fast 
and lighting matches with hands that shook the wee 
flame out, repeatedly. 

“ Well, what does it mean? We won't stay here, 
I suppose." 

Bruce laughed. 

“ No, we won't stay here. We'll get out—move 
to a dinky house squeezed between objectionable 
and noisy neighbors. They’re bound to be noisy, 
close and objectionable. There’ll be a phonograph 
192 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


on one side of us and a mechanical piano on the 
other. There’ll be no Miss Burton, no Agnes, no 
Parker, no Perkins, no cook-” 

“Do you care so much?” Nan’s quick voice 
stopped him. “ Do you really care so much about 
a big place and servants ? ” 

“ Yes—no—I don’t know. I’m used to them. 
Hate to be torn up—roots and all.” Bruce was 
smoking hard, enveloping himself in a blue haze. 
He talked rapidly. 

“We’ll get one cook—a fat, sloppy colored 
woman probably. She’ll have to do everything. 
Get meals, clean, wait on table, wash, iron, take 
care of the children-” 

“ Take care of the children! 99 Nan was on her 
feet, trying to see through the blue mist. “ What 
do you mean ? ” 

Through the fog Bruce’s words came hard, short. 

“ I can’t afford you, Miss Carter. Didn’t you 
realize that? ” 

The blue fog faded because Nan fell silent and 
Bruce wanted to find out what was happening to 
her. When he could finally see, Nan was still 
standing, hands clenched at her sides, head upflung 
and eyes with a challenge in them waiting to meet 
his. Her wrapper had opened a little and revealed 
the smooth whiteness of a lovely throat and a blue 
193 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ribbon of her nightgown that was fluttering under 
her rapid breathing. 

“ Did you think I’d leave you— now? ” she 
asked. Her voice was even, cool. The excitement 
in Bruce quieted and he lowered the quality of his 
tone to meet her calm. 

“ How can you help it? I can’t afford to pay 
you what you’re worth.” 

“ I’m not worth anything if I quit now.” 

“ But child-” Bruce might have been re¬ 

monstrating with Shirley. Nan’s blue eyes black¬ 
ened and flashed. 

“ Don’t you understand ? ” she cried. “ I won’t 
leave. Do you suppose I care whether you can pay 
me or not? Do you suppose I want your money if 
you can’t afford to give it to me ? Do you imagine 
I’m staying for that? Did you dream I would 
hand Bob over to any careless, indifferent old 
colored woman—now, now after all those weeks 
of work and love? Why, how can you think 
it?” 

Nan turned away, caught at the back of the chair 
and stood listening. 

“ You are speaking on the spur of the moment, 
out of a heart that is easily stirred to pity and kind¬ 
ness, out of an imagination that weaves dreams— 
terrible as well as bright. Nothing will happen to 
194 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Bob. You have laid a splendid foundation. I can 
build on that-” 

Nan faced him. 

“ Tell me honestly. Do you think Bob doesn't 
need me any more ? ” 

Nan smiled at the silence that answered her. 

“ Do you think he doesn't want me any more ? ” 
she persisted quietly. 

Bruce shook his head. 

“Then-" Nan’s flashing glance demanded 

the truth. “ You don't want me any more, for 
him.” 

“ You know that isn’t true. I want you, more 
than ever, for Bob, for Shirley, for—myself. Some¬ 
time I will tell you what your coming here has 
meant to me. I—it's been that that has worried 
me more than anything. The worry about the chil¬ 
dren—without you.” 

Nan's smile was heavenly. 

“ Don’t let it worry you any more. They shan't 
have to do without me. I'm going to stay. \on 

can't-” her face was bright with a strange new 

light. “You can't dismiss me now that I know 
you really want me—need me.” 

A look of relief, of gratitude and of some¬ 
thing else not quite clear to Nan in the dim fitfully 
lighted room, leaped to Bruce's eyes. It was reward 
195 






THE DEAR PRETENDER 


enough for Nan, even without the words that fol¬ 
lowed it 

“ That is very like your dear generous self. But 
I can't accept your offer. I have no right to keep 
you, paying you only half what I am paying you 
now—I could manage that—when you could go else¬ 
where and get more." 

He stopped before Nan’s look and ended gently: 

“ At least I won’t accept it now. I want you to 
think about it overnight. All it means to you. 
Remember, you’ve craved luxury, comforts for so 
long. Now you’re having them and you’d have to 
give them all up again.’’ He shook his head, smil¬ 
ingly. “ You haven’t thought, Nan." 

“ I’ve thought of everything," Nan said quietly. 
“ It doesn’t take a woman as long as a man. I’ve 
thought of it ten times while you were saying it. 
It doesn’t make any difference. I’m going to stay 
with you—and Bob—and Shirley, so good-night." 

At the door she turned and laughed, a tender, 
light, happy sound. 

“ I never once said I was sorry for you—about 
the smash-up. I am, of course, if you are. 

But-" she wrinkled a puzzled brow. “ I don’t 

really think it’s going to matter as much as you 
think it is." 

44 Why?” Bruce was after her eagerly. 

196 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I don't know, truly, I don't." Nan held out a 
restraining hand. “ I haven’t thought it out. 
When I do, I’ll tell you.’’ 

Sleep was gone for Nan that night. She huddled 
in the big wing-chair in the nursery before the dying 
fire. She was smiling and excited and rested and 
happy and muddled up about something. What 
was it ? Oh, yes, her reason for thinking that being 
poor wasn’t going to matter so much as he—Bruce 
—thought. She must think it out because he was 
wanting to know. Was it because so much of the 
house was unlived in that giving it up would be like 
giving up something that belonged to somebody else, 
not them, and it wouldn’t hurt ? Possibly, but there 
was more to the reason than that. Was it because 
she had been poor and knew that it brought under¬ 
standing, which was valuable, and effort, which was 
good,—and the need of pretence,—which was 
sweet? Possibly, but there was more than that to 
the reason. There was a something she hadn’t 
grasped yet, a something eluding her, haunting her. 

Nan sat quite still, her head thrown back, her eyes 
on the glittering stars outside. She was waiting 
expectantly for something to come and as she waited 
the black heavens lightened, dimming the shining 
stars. Morning was coming. Light. That was 
what Nan wanted. She watched the darkness lift 
197 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and leave and a still white dawn spread over the 
world outside the window. 

Nan leaned forward, suddenly intent What was 
that? Fairy voices or her memory of them? 
There came a sound of high shrill laughter and pip¬ 
ing tones. 

44 You've left out the most important part of 
your dream! ” 

With a beating heart Nan stared out at the 
brightening world. That was it—the rest of the 
reason. She had left out the most important part 
and she hadn’t known it till now. She had wanted 
a home and children, that was all. Well, she had 
them but she wanted more now. She wanted love, 
the love of a man, of a husband. 

Bruce’s love. 

Nan smiled and rose. A quiet ecstasy filled her. 
She knew now why it was that it didn’t matter 
where she lived, whether she was rich or poor, 
whether she were paid for service or not. She 
loved Bruce. She wanted to be with him, helping 
him, always. 

Nan’s face was white and tired but strangely and 
stilly beautiful. She moved to the two beds, stood 
looking down at the sleeping children and the tender¬ 
ness that had made Bruce lift her hand to his cheek, 
filled her eyes. She loved the children—just as 
198 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


much as ever. More, perhaps, for there was in the 
feeling now a something intimate and sweet. But 
it didn't fill her as it used to. It wasn’t as possess¬ 
ing. While loving Bruce- 

Nan went through the door into her room and lay 
down on her bed. There was simply no use in try¬ 
ing to find big enough words for a something too 
big for words to fit. 


199 




CHAPTER XII 


Nan went through the duties of the next day in 
a dream. Everything was so different! The very 
house seemed to take on a different aspect and every 
slightest noise stirred her blood and sent the tell¬ 
tale color flying to her face. A door shutting— 
was it Bruce entering or leaving ? A bell ringing— 
was Bruce sending word for her to come to him? 
A footstep—could it be his? 

When she went down-stairs to take the children 
out her heart was pounding. Bruce's den such a 
little way behind her! Might he not appear? 
Might he not join them? The ecstasy of the 
thought set her trembling. Nan hoped he would. 
Then she hoped he wouldn't, because she was 
terribly afraid he would guess her secret. It filled 
her eyes—how could he help but see? Breathing 
with Bruce close was so difficult. He would be 
sure to guess. 

And yet, woman-wise, Nan had a faint conscious¬ 
ness of Bruce's love for her. It would be too 
wonderful- But she must keep the thought un¬ 

shaped, hide it sternly in the deep recesses of her 
heart. She must not mistake a desire for a reality. 
Besides the thought was presumptuous. What was 
there about her for a man like Bruce to love? Nan 
lashed herself to humility, determined never to let 
200 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


herself believe it until she heard it—and continued 
to hug memories of swift glances and unfinished 
sentences, suggestive of the sweet possibility. 

The day passed and Nan had not seen or heard 
Bruce. Dusk came—the difficult hour when every 
game had been played, every stunt invented, every 
story told and every song sung. Nan was in her 
room. The two children were sprawled on the 
floor before the fire looking at her photograph 
album, when Agnes appeared with a note. 

“ Dear Nan ”— 

Thus easily, without apology or question, for¬ 
mality had been dropped between them. 

“ Dear Nan: 

“ Business calls me suddenly to Washington. 
I will be gone a week—ten days—perhaps more. 
Please say nothing of what I told you last night to 
anyone, and think, if you can, of a way of making 
Santa Claus appear both economical and extrava¬ 
gant this year. I leave Christmas plans in your 
hands. We will stay here, but of course, there can¬ 
not be the orgy of gifts there has always been. 

“ The memory of your dearness last night stays 
with me—immeasurable comfort and support. 
But you must be very, very sure of yourself before I 
accept your generosity. Give it plenty of thought 
while I am away. My children are safe with you. 

“ Yours, 


201 


“ Bruce.” 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan sprang to her feet. Bruce had gone! 
Without a good-bye! She wasn’t to see him for 
weeks! Finding Agnes’ eyes on her in some sur¬ 
prise she said quickly: 

“ Mr. Wilson has left me with directions which 
are a little vague. Has he gone, Agnes? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am. He left this morning early for 
New York. Parker brought the note back just 
now.” 

Nan sat down again. 

“ All right. It’s about Christmas—but I guess I 
can manage. Thank you, Agnes.” 

The children were still absorbed. Nan read the 
brief little note again and then fell a-dreaming. It 
was the first note she had ever had from him, and 
though it said little, it seemed to say much, to be 
breathing warmly many unsaid thoughts. The 
dropping of the “ Miss ” before her name implied a 
new comradeship. How glad she was that she had 
yielded to that mad impulse last night. Glad? 
Heavens! The word was utterly inadequate. 
When the still hours following her impetuous rush 
to the den had shown her life’s meaning. 

“Nan!” 

Nan jumped, thrust the letter inside her dress, 
and fought back the shy sweet color that swept up 
over her face. 


202 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Yes, dear." 

“ That's fifty-'leven times I've called you." Bob 
was reproachful “You’re all afire. Didn’t you 
hear?" 

“ No, Bob, Nan was thinking. What is it? " 

“ Please put this in my letter to Santa Claus— 
skates and a sled-’’ 

“ I’ve got a brand-new idea." 

Bob swung around, hugging his knees between 
his hands, his head flung up to listen. Nan's ideas 
were generally good. Shirley scrambled to Nan's 
lap. 

“ How would you like to have a different kind of 
Christmas this year ? " 

“ How—different ? " Bob was wary. 

“ Like the kind I used to have." Nan began to 
glow. “It was such fun! We all of us made 
things for each other—wonderful surprises. No¬ 
body knew what anybody else was going to get but 
we were all terribly busy guessing." 

Bob was doubtful but he was always willing to 
look all around a proposition. 

“ For instance," Nan's quick smile flashed from 
Shirley to Bob. “ You could get out your tool box, 
Bob, that Santa Claus brought you last year which 
you've never used. And I could show you how to 
make a scrap basket for Daddy. He needs one 
203 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


terribly. And Miss Burton wants a stand for her 
plant. What color do you think would be nice, 
Bob ? ” 

“ Me—paint it myself? ” Bob’s eyes kindled. 

“Of course.” 

“ Well—I love red.” It was decisive but his 
glance begged approval. 

Nan nodded. 

“ So does Miss Burton. And for Shirley—hop 
off, girly,—I want to whisper a secret to Brother.” 

The secret being imparted Bob rose. Enthu¬ 
siasm was lit in him. 

“ I’m going to get my tool box now.” 

“To-day isn’t a bit too soon to begin,” Nan 
agreed. “We have—let’s see—mercy! Here it is 
almost the middle of November, not much more 
than a month! ” 

“ Tirley ’ant to make some Kissmus pwesents. 
For Daddy, an’ Nan, an’ Bob. An’ Mitz Button.” 

Nan caught Shirley’s hands and danced with her 
into the nursery. 

“ So you shall, darling. So you shall. The 
nursery will be our workshop. Clear off the win¬ 
dow sill and bring over the little chairs while I run 
down and ask Perkins for some wood! ” 

Not for nothing had Nan had four young 
brothers. Under the direction of her capable and 
204 




the dear pretender 


clever hands, the beginnings of a scrap basket ap¬ 
peared. It was, of course, to have a design. Bob 
was entranced. After long moments of squirming 
deliberation, pond lilies were chosen. 

“ Because Dad is related to the fairies,” he ex¬ 
plained. “ And the fairies live in ’em.” 

Nan nodded, and pond lilies were drawn on the 
four pieces of wood that were sawed into shape. 

While Bob was painstakingly at work painting a 
black background for the white lilies and green 
leaves. Nan began collecting before Shirley’s de¬ 
lighted eyes ribbons and scissors, bright blotters 
and pictures. 

“ Daddy needs a new blotter for his desk. See, 
we’ll cut out three pieces—a green and blue and 
brown—and tie them together with this red ribbon. 
Then we’ll paste on a calendar—and-” 

“ Tirley want to cut him out.” 

The difficult hour sped on wings. Ideas came as 
work progressed. Cook was to have a sachet, 
Agnes a handkerchief case. Nan expressed a desire 
for a glove box that she was sure Bob and Shirley 
could make between them. There were to be blot¬ 
ters enough for everyone and Bob showed an in¬ 
clination to put a scrap basket in each room, but 
Nan knew that variety was the spice of life and 
wisely limited the number. 

205 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


And while fingers flew tongues did also. Nan 
found herself rather hard put to it to explain why 
skates and sleds weren’t left for each of the boys, 
when she was a little girl, and why not finding them, 
they were still quite, oh —quite happy, on Christmas 
day in the morning. 

“ Usually we found,” Nan said, that Santa had 
left just one nice thing for each of us, that we 
wanted very, very much. Now Bob, if you had to 
choose,—just one of all the things you thought you 
wanted,—what would it be? ” 

Bob’s mind ranged over the list, his paint-brush 
suspended in the air. 

“ That,” he said gravely, “ is hard to say.” 

“ I know! ” Shirley, shivering with excitement, 
pranced about Nan. “ I’d wanta—wanta—bed for 
Betsy doll. Wiv a leeta peelow—an’ a b’anket.” 

“ I’d choose the sled,” Bob finally decided. 
“ ’Cause you haven’t skates and Shirley’s too little. 
But we could all sled.” 

What matter if days were stormy? There was 
no end to the interest of this new game. Hints 
were shouted before a tantalized Agnes. Secrets 
nearly burst from their keepers. The holiday spirit 
rioted gleefully day by day and Christmas promised 
to be truly a day of giving—and getting. No one 
was forgotten in that big house and it was a new 
206 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


thought to the children that grown-ups might like 
gifts too. 

It was over three weeks before Bruce returned. 
Then he appeared unannounced in the nursery one 
night. Nan, looking up over a clutter of paint 
boxes, scrap baskets, tools, ribbons and paper, felt 
the color flood her face. Mercifully, the scramble 
instantly necessary to hide Christmas surprises 
from Daddy, saved her. She had herself well in 
hand and her secret tucked sternly out of sight 
before Bruce was allowed to enter the nursery 
again. 

“ What’s the meaning of all this mystery? ” 

Jubilant explanations tumbled forth. Bruce shot 
an understanding glance of gratitude at Nan. What 
a wonder she was! Economizing for him. Giving 
to Christmas a new zest for everyone in the house, 
teaching the youngsters how to use their hands and 
their heads and their hearts, and herself having the 
best time of all. 

“ I’ve got to be off again to-night,” he told her, 
while supper was in progress. He was in the wing- 
chair, she in the low rocker. Agnes presided at the 
table. 

Nan leaned over to pick up some scraps from the 
floor. Disappointment had leaped so swiftly to her 
eyes. 


207 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Well, do plan to be here for Christmas/* she 
said lightly. 

The seriousness of his reply startled her. 

“ I’ll try. This is a trip to the coast/’ he went on, 
his eyes on the fire. “ A last frantic effort to raise 

money, for the accomplishment of-” he stopped 

suddenly. “ I can’t go into it now. But some¬ 
time, if you’re interested, I’ll tell you.” 

“ I’d love to hear,” Nan held her voice to quiet. 
“ Do you mean there’s a possibility of saving some¬ 
thing from the wreckage? ” 

He nodded. 

“ Something like that. At least there’s some¬ 
thing new afoot, that may haul us all out of deep 
water, in time. But it’ll take time.” Excitement 
grew in him. “ If it does succeed—this project— 
it’ll pay in more ways than one.” 

The gleam of battle was in his eyes. Nan’s heart 
sang. So long as he was fighting, not knocked flat 
by the blows of life, he would win out. 

“ A merger with another company ? ” she asked. 

He looked at her, blankness in his eyes at first. 

“ Oh, no. I sold out my business long ago. I’m 
started on something else, something quite new, and 
different.” 

He pulled out his watch. 

“ There’s a man coming at eight, and I must get 
208 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


dinner before that, repack and be ready to start on 
the midnight express.” 

“ But you will be here by Christmas?” She 
could not keep quite all the eager pleading from her 
face. 

“ I certainly will, if I have to charter a special. 
I’ll try to be here by Christmas eve. I want a talk 
with you. Nan, a long one, about—all kinds of 
things.” 

The firelight or a creeping flush stained Nan’s 
cheeks. She could not say a word. Bruce leaned 
toward her. 

“ I hate to go,” he said in a low voice. “ I’d 
rather stay here, where my heart is.” 

From somewhere far away Nan summoned her 
voice, a light laughing voice. 

“ Well, you have us to come back to. We’ll still 
be here, you know.” 

“ I know.” He caught her hand, held it tightly 
a moment in his two strong warm ones, then 
dropped it. 

“ Good-bye.” 

It was not the economical desire to save electricity 
that night that sent Nan quietly to the head of the 
stairs just before midnight. She simply wanted to 
see Bruce once more before he went. So, with hot 
cheeks and eyes shamed at her boldness she huddled 
209 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


in a silent heap on the top step. The upper hall was 
in darkness but through the bannisters Nan could 
see in the lighted lower hall the hat rack and the 
front door. 

She could hear voices in Bruce’s den. That man 
must still be there. How busy Bruce was. What 
long hours he kept and how hard he worked. But 
that was better, oh, infinitely better than sitting in 
despair, fighting black thoughts. Much as Nan 
minded his being away, she preferred to have this 
new something absorb him just now. Preferred it 
for two reasons,—it was best for Bruce and easier 
for her. How could he help but see she loved him 
when just his eyes resting on her in warmth and 
friendliness drove the breath clean from her body. 

Ah! The door was opening. They were com¬ 
ing. Nan pressed herself closer into the black blur 
of the bannisters. Surely she was in shadow. Her 
dark wrapper was not discernible. 

Voices. And the two men came into her line of 
vision. As he talked, Bruce’s arm reached out and 
he picked up a hat and gave it to the slim stooped 
stranger who stood with his back to Nan. She 
gave him scarcely a glance. Her look was on the 
figure of the man whom she loved, watching his big 
swift movements as he shrugged himself into his 
fur coat, seeing his eyes with that bright glow in 
210 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


them when he was keenly interested. Even under 
his hat and at that distance his face seemed alive 
with excitement while his body, in spite of its usual 
quiet movement, showed a repression of vibrancy 
that reached up to Nan. She shivered a little. 

Then at the door as Bruce stepped back to let the 
older man pass out before him. Nan heard the 
stranger speak. She could not remember a word 
that he said but a familiar quality in his voice stayed 
by her. She found herself wondering whose voice 
it was all the time that she wanted to be remember¬ 
ing how Bruce looked when he didn’t know he was 
being looked at And she couldn’t tell, couldn’t 
place the voice. 

Nan was in bed, on the edge of sleep when it 
came to her, as clearly as lightning in a black sky. 
The voice was Ferguson’s. John Ferguson, the in¬ 
ventor of the machine, for whom her father had 
sacrificed his fortune, was here in business parley 
with Bruce. And Nan had told Bruce of Ferguson. 
What did it mean ? 


211 




CHAPTER XIII 


For the next two weeks Nan had plenty of time 
to think and her thoughts spun out like a spider’s 
web, in endless circles that spread a gray film over 
the joy and serenity that had been hers. 

If Ferguson were in touch with Bruce it could 
mean only one thing. Bruce had taken advantage 
of Nan’s confidence and was, for some motive as yet 
unknown to her, having business conferences with 
him. Bruce had been in the silk business. Fer¬ 
guson had invented a new machine for finishing silk 
with a new lustre. The natural conclusion was that 
these discussions bore on their mutual interest and 
work. 

But Bruce could not buy the patents from John. 
He had told her himself his firm had failed. He 
had sold out, before submerging entirely, but at a 
great loss. They were to move from this lovely 
place to smaller quarters, where quite decidedly 
Bruce was averse to living. Surely then he was not 
in a position to consider buying valuable rights from 
a man who held them as dear as life itself. 

What then? Was he trying to interest moneyed 
people, trying to get the machine on the market? 
Why? How could he, under the present circum¬ 
stances, afford to spend time on a proposition like 
212 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


that unless he was to profit considerably himself? 
If he was to profit—but how could that be? John 
was to receive half the profits, the Carters the other 
half, if the machine were ever marketed. Would 
John divide with Bruce for the sake of seeing his 
dream come true? Nan believed not. Oh, as¬ 
suredly not! Hadn’t Ferguson promised her father 
he would never let the patents leave his hands ? He 
wanted to do it all himself or not at all. He was a 
stubborn man. Nan remembered her father saying, 
one of those possessed of a single track mind. He 
had room for only a single idea at a time, and the 
tenacity of a bulldog for clinging to it. 

A possible solution flashed into her mind but it 
was an ugly thing, unworthy of her new faith in 
men, her great love for Bruce. Nan dismissed it 
at once but the fact that it had made entrance was 
disturbing to her peace. Oh, if only she could 
answer some of these unanswerable questions! 
There were so many! Why, if Bruce wasn’t to 
profit materially, was he doing this? Good as he 
was he wasn’t entirely a philanthropist. He 
wouldn’t do as big a thing as this for Ferguson, 
who was an utter stranger to him until a few months 
ago. 

But was he an utter stranger ? Nan didn’t know. 
She knew no way of being sure. If Bruce had 
213 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


known him it seemed queer that he hadn’t mentioned 
it at the time she was telling him her father’s story. 
Why shouldn’t it have been the most natural thing 
in the world for him to turn in surprise to Nan and 
say—“ John Ferguson! Why, I know him! ” He 
had, to be sure, shown an unusual interest as she 
talked. Nan remembered it now. He had hurled 
questions at her with a javelin swiftness. But still, 
she might only be imagining that. An imagination 
let loose runs like a colt. Nan checked hers 
sternly. 

If then, John were not the stranger Nan’s first 
instinct had prompted her to feel, she had no right 
to question Bruce. There are some things one may 
ask and others one may not. Presuming that Bruce 
and John were meeting on matters of no concern to 
Nan herself, it would be impossible for her to open 
the way to a discussion of any sort. 

Nan agonized and wondered. Alternately she 
trusted and distrusted. Distrust once lodged meant 
a killing of her new love, a wiping out of all joy for 
long endless years. It meant, why, it meant Nan 
would have to go. She couldn’t possibly stay here 
with Bruce with this between them. 

What was it he had said that day in the limou¬ 
sine? “ You must promise never to hate me, Miss 
Nan, always to trust me.” And when she had 
214 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


hesitated he had told her that trusting was for dark 
places as well as light, for blindness as well as 
vision. So she had finally promised. This surely 
was a dark place. Was Nan’s trust in Bruce of 
strong enough stuff for her to lean on until the com¬ 
ing of light? 

Without lore it might not have been, but Nan’s 
love, though new, was a tremendous force, a deep, 
still power of which she was as yet only faintly 
aware. It was enough, however, to drive doubt 
away and to steady her determination not to ques¬ 
tion Bruce’s integrity by a word or a further 
thought. 

With this decision there came to Nan the sudden 
hope that she had been mistaken, that the voice she 
had heard was not, after all, Ferguson’s. She 
might be wrong. She hadn’t seen his face, hadn’t 
recognized his figure, hadn’t heard him speak since 
she was a child. How easily she might have been 
misled. 

So Christmas eve found Nan awaiting Bruce’s 
return in palpitating eagerness, and Nan, snuggled 
deep in a leather chair in Bruce’s den could recall 
nothing but the dearness of him. 

Up-stairs the two children were sound asleep, 
their red stockings dangling with an empty expec¬ 
tancy from their bed posts. A small light was 
215 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


left burning so that they could see Santa Claus if 
they should happen to waken when he came. Nan 
had stayed in her living-room, tying up the last of 
the earnestly made gifts that had only that after¬ 
noon been finished. At nine o’clock Bruce had not 
yet returned. Shouldn’t she and Perkins carry 
down the packages and place them about the tree? 
She needn’t start trimming for an hour, but if he 
didn’t come soon- 

So the bundles were carried down and Perkins 
had gone to the service portion of the house. Nan 
had returned to her room and tried to read. Then 
the idea came that she would wait for Bruce in his 
den. 

Why not ? Wouldn’t finding her there warm his 
home-coming? Would he be glad? Or would he 
think her bold and consider it an intrusion? Nan’s 
struggle was sharp but short. For desire to miss no 
moment of the evening with him, to be near his 
possessions while waiting, was stronger than her 
usual reserve. Anyway the tree must be trimmed 
to-night and if he wasn’t home in time to help her— 
as his last letter had promised he would be—she 
must do it herself. 

This decision strengthened her courage and 
though excitement burned her cheeks and lit fires in 
her eyes she made her swift way down to the be- 
216 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


loved room. The fragrance of the evergreen tree, 
whose tip touched the ceiling, filled the air and 
mingled pleasantly with the odor of burning apple- 
tree. Outside in the velvet darkness snow was fall¬ 
ing silently, the heavy carpeting and curtaining of 
the world dulling all sounds. Nan liked this sense 
of withdrawal. It would make their togetherness, 
when he came, so much closer. She put out a 
hand and touched the big chair near her. It was 
sweet to be here. Bruce seemed so much nearer here 
than anywhere. His pipe, left on the stand as 
though he had just gone from the room a moment, 
his desk immaculate except for the big blotter. Nan 
smiled at a memory. He hated a clean blotter, he 
said. It prevented his working. 

Bruce had written twice, brief hurried notes, but 
in each was some little sentence that made them 
precious to Nan. “ I shall be glad to get home. ,, 
And I think of you often.” Meagre enough 
perhaps, but also, perhaps, pregnant with meaning. 

And he had sounded happy. He was happy. 
Miss Burton had seen it too. She had come to 
Nan s room with her slipping shawl and flying hair 
and pattering conversation, and had remarked sev¬ 
eral times that Bruce was “so different—she was 
so glad. He hadn’t been so, well, so happy for years 

and of course it’s because-” 

217 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


But the reason trailed into silence as Miss Burton 
caught at escaping words and an escaping shawl 
with a little gasp. Nan was left to draw her own 
conclusions. (It was funny, she thought, how a 
woman could say so much and yet leave so much un¬ 
said.) She laid his “ difference ” to his joy in 
Bob's improvement, to his closer intimacy with both 
his children, to his new business interests and the 
zest of fighting to the top again. 

A muffled ring sounded through the house. Fol¬ 
lowed the opening and shutting of a door and 
Perkins's soft footsteps. Nan sprang up, suddenly 
ashamed of her presence here in Bruce’s den, de¬ 
ciding to fly to her room. 

But there wasn't time. The big front door closed 
and Bruce’s deep tones came to her ears in a greet¬ 
ing to the man servant, then rapid footsteps to the 
den. Nan was caught, and she stood, in a wild, shy 
embarrassment, a hand on the back of the big chair, 
the other half out, as Bruce entered swiftly. 

He took the outstretched hand in his two and for 
a second there was nothing in the room or in the 
world for Nan but Bruce’s face above hers, his 
brown eyes smiling down at her. 

“ Home! And you here waiting for me. I 
hoped you’d think of it.” Still he held her hand 
and still he looked at Nan until her eyes dropped 
218 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


beneath the intensity in his. “ I might have known 
you would think of it though! ” 

“ Oh, but I didn't do it for you! I came be¬ 
cause -” 

“ Because you wanted to ? ” 

Nan pulled her hand away. 

“ Because the tree has to be trimmed and it's get¬ 
ting frightfully late, and I thought—I had just 
made up my mind to begin without you.” 

Bruce laughed a great hearty laugh, scolding her 
for being so uncomplimentary. Nan's momentary 
confusion passed. She laughed with him, while 
something within her sang because he had been glad 
to find her there. There was no shadow of doubt 
about that. He had hoped she would be there. 

They plunged into the business of trimming the 
tree. Bruce on a ladder earnestly striving for 
artistic effects, balancing dangerously on the top 
step to fasten a star to the tree top, talking a lot of 
nonsense, with a few questions shot at her between 
whiles—Nan wanted to keep the memory of him 
vivid in her heart but for some reason—perhaps it 
was her own self-consciousness or her own joy—im¬ 
pressions were indistinct. She could not afterward 
recall anything that was said in that hour. Mean¬ 
ingful glances, high moments of sweetness, when a 
sudden silence became heavy with unsaid things, 
319 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


slight touchings when her hair brushed his cheek or 
his hand her shoulderthese gave their thrill and 
returned with an elusive bitter-sweet clearness to 
Nan in later days. 

It was not until the tree stood fully dressed in its 
gleaming tinsel glory and Bruce turned to her 
abruptly, that Nan’s senses sharpened. 

“ Will you stay a while longer ? I have some 
things I want to say to you.” 

Nan’s chair was in shadow, Bruce sat fully in the 
light of the fire, his gaze fastened on the flames, his 
elbows on his knees. Nan knew at once that inti¬ 
mate things were to be revealed to her and she 
drew a sharp little breath. Bruce began with no 
explanation or embarrassment. 

Quite simply, with a very evident effort to be fair, 
he told her of his marriage to Margaret. It was 
nothing unusual, a young idealistic man giving to a 
beautiful woman all his first fine faith and splendid 
love. The gradual discovery that beneath the 
beauty was an utterly selfish heart. His disappoint¬ 
ment, his stubborn blindness as he clung to the belief 
that if she was not all he dreamed her, she could 
be if she would. The little pathetic blundering 
ways in which he had tried to make her over. There 
was his first big mistake. She resented the change 
in his attitude. Humble worship was to her liking, 
220 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


but a husband, who clearly saw her faults, who 
wanted to reform her, who was not to be hood¬ 
winked or swerved from his sense of justice and 
right, was decidedly an embarrassment. He put 
her on edge until a series of annoyances culminated 
in a scene in which pretence fled and civility was 
forgotten and she was brutally truthful. She told 
him she had married him for his money, had not 
wanted her first child and was about to consult a 
doctor in order to avoid a second such accident. 

To a man brought up as Bruce had been, with 
reverence for motherhood a part of his creed, this 
frank revelation was sickening. He left his wife's 
room with his passion dead and his love turned to 
ashes. 

“ I think I could have passed over everything but 
her indifference to Bob. There was hostility in her 
eyes when she looked at him. He had cost her 
much pain, to be sure, but it wasn't that. It was 
the swift maturing of her figure, the falling out of 
her hair—she had beautiful hair—the inescapable 
aging of her features that she had resented. She 
didn't know that the marks of service are honor¬ 
able and possess a beauty all their own." 

Bruce paused. His face showed that this opening 
of an old wound had been difficult. 

“ Shirley was born two months too soon and 
221 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Margaret died. We didn’t think Shirley would 
lire. She was a frail baby, hanging by a thread to 
this world for months. Her physical growth and 
remarkable sweetness of disposition have been an 
unending wonder to me when I remember her 
mother during those months.” 

In the silence of the room came the soft sound of 
tumbling logs burned to embers and the steady tick¬ 
ing of a clock. Abruptly Bruce rose, standing with 
his back to the dying fire, his eyes on the slim white 
figure of the girl in the deep shadows. 

“ That’s all. I wanted you to know.” 

Nan drew a long breath. (Had she breathed at 
all since he began?) She wanted to say just the 
right thing, but, plunging about in her mind for the 
thought that would best express her response to this 
confidence, she could find nothing that seemed to 
suit. And the more she groped the more deter¬ 
minedly something fitting eluded her. 

“ I’m so sorry,” she said at last in a low voice. 
“ So dreadfully sorry you had to be so hurt.” 

Bruce was at ease again, lighting his pipe, settling 
with relief in his chair again. 

“ Disillusionment must come to us all at some 
time, I suppose. I thought for a long time my faith 
in the beauty of woman was gone forever. Thanks 
to you, my dear, it has come back.” 

222 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


His casual tone forbade Nan's attributing any 
particular intention to his words. Before she could 
reply he went on in the same easy level voice: 

“ You’ve been a dream come true. That’s why 
you were unbelievable, why I wouldn’t trust you at 
first. I probably hurt you by my skepticism, but 
you understand now.” He smiled at her quietly. 
“ You under stand too why I was so cut up at the 
thought of losing you. You haven’t changed your 
mind about that ? ” This was a sudden startled 
afterthought. Nan smiling, shook her head. Their 
eyes met and a quiet content filled the room. Bruce 
rebuilt the fire and the sweetness grew in silence. 
A word or a thought could spoil it. Nan held her 
breath in fear, but when he spoke again it was to 
tell her of his plans. He had had, he said, an offer 
for the house and contents that was satisfactory. 
The buyer was in no hurry to obtain occupancy and 
they would have two or three months in which to 
find another home. They would take with them 
nothing but the furniture in his den. His eyes 
swept lovingly over the old mahogany. 

“ It all belonged to my father,” he said. 

“ Tell me about him.” It was asked more with 
the idea of keeping Bruce talking than from any real 
curiosity. She waited in some surprise at the little 
pause that met her request. 

223 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Some time I’m going to,” he said at last. 
“ He wasn’t always understood. I’d like you to 
think of him as he truly was. But not to-night.” 

Miss Burton was to remain with them, he went 
on. She had offered to do all the mending and run 
the house. She would find and engage some woman 
to cook and another to do the laundry and cleaning. 
Nan’s hands would be filled caring for the children. 
He expected to keep one car which he would drive 
himself. He would also tend the furnace, shovel 
sidewalks, and rake leaves- 

Nan clapped her hands. 

“ Oh, fun! I’ll help you!” 

He turned toward her, amused and impatient. 
She was, he declared, just pretending. His 
lazy smile made her eyes flash, and he spoke 
quickly. 

“ It’s dear—your pretend game—and plucky, and 
I don’t know but what it’s the sportingest way of 
meeting life. But I worry, sometimes, about you. 
I do so wonder what’s going to happen to you when 
you come to the place where pretending does no 
good.” 

Some fear of this happening showed itself in 
Nan’s eyes and communicated itself to him before 
she flung her retort: 

“ I’ll never get there! ” 

224c 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Bruce said nothing, but his look probed deep. It 
was almost as if he could see into her heart, could 
know she was pretending now, fiercely, deter¬ 
minedly. Quite unexpectedly Nan grew frightened. 
He did know more of life than she. Did that time 
have to come ? Her look was a little piteous. 
Bruce’s hand came over on hers for a brief comfort¬ 
ing moment. 

“ I hope not—for you. I’d like to be around if 
it does.” 

But somehow a shadow had fallen. Happiness 
seemed to leak from her heart leaving it empty and 
hurt. She rose and the two of them went up to the 
nursery and filled the stockings in silence. Just as 
they finished Bob gave a tremendous sigh, opened an 
eye, flounced over and fell into sleep again. Bruce 
caught Nan’s hand and they tiptoed like two cul¬ 
prits into the hall. 

In the hall he suddenly turned to her, both his 
hands on her shoulders. 

“ You won’t forget a promise you made me, will 
you ? ” 

Nan was helpless under his touch. She raised 
questioning eyes. 

“ Never to hate me. Always to trust me. 
Promise it again, Nan.” 

She caught her breath. For the briefest second 
225 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


her eyes wavered, then she summoned all her desire 
to make it her belief. 

“ Yes, Bruce, I do.” 

But Bruce had seen the hesitancy and his eyes re¬ 
flected in their depths the regret that he had 
glimpsed in hers. His hands fell. 

“ Good-night—little pretender.” 


226 




CHAPTER XIV 


It was terribly distressing. Nan knew some¬ 
thing—but not enough of it. Bruce knew she knew 
but he couldn’t possibly know what or how, or how 
much. Nevertheless the Thing,—whatever it was 
—was between them. If they tried talking, the 
Thing would only grow greater. Yet not to talk 
meant leaving the Thing right there. It would 
grow in either case to immense proportions. Well, 
however ugly it was, Christmas day was to be un¬ 
spoiled by it. No shadow of anything real or un¬ 
real must fall on the brightness of the children’s 
day of days. 

This was Nan’s determination, as she rose the 
next morning. It was also Bruce’s and from the 
moment when the two met in the dark morning 
hours in the nursery, each felt the other’s resolve to 
make this such a Christmas as had never been known 
in the big house, such a one as would always be re¬ 
membered with smiles of gladness. Bruce came 
into the room in his dressing-gown, as eager as the 
children over the stockings bursting forth their sur¬ 
prises. A fire was lit in the fireplace and the four 
of them marvelled over toys until light came to re¬ 
veal a snowbound world. The cold eye of the 
morning looking in on the informal scene, seemed 
227 


4 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


to cast disapproving glances and simultaneously Nan 
and Bruce withdrew to finish dressing themselves 
for the day. 

They all breakfasted together in the dining-room, 
Miss Burton included. This breaking of precedent 
for Bruce might have been awkward, but the chil¬ 
dren tided over the first difficult moment when they 
were all seated. Thanks to them, too, the solemn 
grandeur of the room lost its impressiveness and 
when the sun reached the long narrow windows 
stretching golden fingers through to touch the silver 
on the sideboard, and the heavy gilt frames sur¬ 
rounding ancestral pictures, the room seemed 
actually to twinkle with laughter. 

Order and routine were banished for the day. 
Obeying the fluttering summons of the housekeeper 
the servants gathered in silent amazement at the 
door of Bruce's den. Hitherto their Christmas 
gifts in the shape of an impersonal check had been 
given them in their quarter of the house. But this 
inclusion in the family room, while Bob with a 
pardonable pride, and Shirley in an ecstasy of ex¬ 
citement, presented the remembrances made by 
themselves, was a touching moment. The cook 
grew red, then white, and her embarrassed gulp of 
thanks ended behind her apron. Agnes’ homely 
face was transformed by something akin to loveli- 
228 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ness, and Perkins, whose features had always been 
as stiff as his body, was moved to a violent blowing 
of his nose, that seemed to heave his whole face into 
another expression. 

Nan was never to forget that hour. She was 
withdrawn slightly from the others, a spectator. 
She exulted over Bob, her dear difficult laddie, 
whose sullenness seemed to be wiped forever from 
his fine earnest face. The picture of Shirley, a 
radiant, vibrant little figure, her sweet face all 
smiles, her slim quivering body all grace, cut itself 
indelibly into her heart. Strangely enough, at this 
moment when her love for these two children was 
almost an unbearable ache in her throat, there came 
stabbing into her mind a return of her doubt of 
Bruce, of his relations with Ferguson. She put it 
from her and turned her eyes on him. In spite of 
the children he dominated the scene, tactfully help¬ 
ing Bob read names, controlling Shirley’s excitement 
and keeping her curious hands from exploring the 
fascinating possibilities of his desk—a forbidden 
pleasure. Somehow, too, he extended to the hud¬ 
dled self-conscious group of servants in the door¬ 
way, the feeling of the brotherhood of man, the 
Christmas spirit in its essence. His glance met hers 
and Nan’s doubt vanished like a pricked bubble. 
It is impossible to hold love and distrust both 
229 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


in one’s heart. One must surely drive the other 
out 

The rest of the morning flew on wings. They 
must all go out and try the new sled, and Bruce 
laughingly demanded Nan’s approval of the way he 
had learned to “kick up his heels.” When coast¬ 
ing grew monotonous, they made an enormous 
snowball and a wonderful snowman, and this, in 
turn, led to the suggestion that they have a sleigh- 
ride in the afternoon. Bruce drove, with Nan be¬ 
side him. And the two children, on either side of 
Miss Burton, sat in the rear seat. 

In spite of the clear keen air, and the merry music 
of the bells, there crept over Bruce and Nan a little 
dimming fear. A constraint fell upon them. 
Conversation lagged, then dropped. Neither made 
an effort to start it. Nan was possessed by the 
strange feeling that to-day was to end a certain un¬ 
named loveliness that had existed between them. 
She shook her head and stiffened herself against it. 

“This won’t do, will it?” he said quietly. 

“ No. What is it anyway? ” 

He looked down at her. 

“ With me it was only the usual dread of pulling 
up stakes. Was there anything else?” 

Nan’s glance met his and suddenly her eyes were 
filled with tears. 


230 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ I don't know. I hate it too/’ she whispered. 
“ I’m afraid.” 

“ What are you afraid of ? ” 

Nan shook her head. 

“ Is there something-? ” 

But Nan, aching to talk, could not. Oh, if she 
could. If only words would clear up this muddle, 
tidy up the confusion in her soul! But there were 
no words. There were nothing but feelings. And 
words never fit those. Better not try. 

Her throat was swollen with tears. She shook 
her head again quite determinedly. No, of course 
not. She was just tired, and when she was, she was 
always imaginative. She supposed it was nothing 
but hating to leave the big place too. And that was 
silly because everything would be dear and cosy in 
the wee house once she got there. She not only 
believed it. She knew it. She'd been in one. He 
must trust her this time. Anyway this worry was 
unfair to the children and nonsensical besides. 

Nan nearly convinced herself, and Bruce, under¬ 
standing perhaps more than she guessed, helped 
along her pretence, so that by the time dusk de¬ 
scended and they were warming stiffened limbs be¬ 
fore a splendid fire in Bruce's den, each was making 
a rather creditable showing of happiness. There 
was, to be sure, a suspicion of moisture in Nan's 
231 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


deep eyes as she sat in the firelight telling a Christ¬ 
mas story and there was a forced sprightliness in 
Bruce’s tone when he bade them turn around to see 
the Christmas tree lit up with its hundreds of tiny 
colored lights, but the children were unaware of it. 
And as darkness shut the world from them and the 
two tired children turned to the grown-ups with an 
unconscious appeal for understanding and peace and 
a continuation of good cheer, Bruce and Nan found 
their pretence becoming real, their contentment a 
very definite and firmly rooted feeling. As though 
the darkness and the four walls and the closed door 
could keep it in, so they lengthened that last long 
hour until Shirley’s golden head lay still against 
Nan’s breast and Bob’s dark brooding eyes drooped 
wearily. 

Nan had hoped that Christmas evening might be 
spent as Christmas eve had been. They two together 
in the warm safe comfort of his den. Somehow it 
was easier to fight off this queer dread when one 
wasn’t alone. And he had promised so many times 
to tell her of his new business. She half planned 
to give him an opportunity that night. If he would 
talk to her frankly of his work she was sure her 
misgivings would be laid to rest. She wanted 
something definite from him,—details, not just 
vague generalities. 


232 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


But though the evening began right, it ended 
miserably. There was the fragrant firelit room in 
all its dear familiarity but Nan’s first question 
brought a change in Bruce’s attitude. From an 
eager, earnest attention to her his glance shifted to 
one of abstraction and slight concern. With too 
great carelessness he suggested that they leave busi¬ 
ness for another night. This was a holiday. 
Nan’s spirit froze and fright began beating within 
her like a prisoned bird. Just as the situation be¬ 
came awkward, Perkins appeared with a card. 
Nan heard Bruce mutter an exclamation, give a 
murmured direction to the butler, then his excuses to 
her. He was so sorry—it was an unexpected call 
—if it were business it was too important to put off 
—if it were pleasure he was so tremendously in¬ 
debted to the man he had to see him. Nan rose 
quickly. 

“ Why, of course, I understand perfectly.” 

Which is something ladies usually say when they 
understand not at all. 


233 




CHAPTER XV 


The days passed swiftly. Nan told Bob and 
Shirley of the intended change of affairs and they 
took it as a new excitement, as children will. So 
long as there would remain familiar faces, meals at 
usual times and two wee white beds at night, noth¬ 
ing else mattered. At any rate, to Bob's “ When ? ” 
Nan's “ In a month or two " meant an eternity. 
The matter soon lost importance. 

Bruce had asked Nan to do the house hunting. 
With sparkling eyes she had agreed. It was not, 
he said, to be one of a row. It need not be modern, 
or respectable or near the station. It need not cost 
more than three thousand, must not cost more than 
ten. But it must have—outside and inside—per¬ 
sonality. 

Nan had nodded eagerly. She knew! She knew 
just what he wanted. A wee white house snuggling 
under talking trees, a house whose front door was 
a smile, whose walls were loving arms, whose fire¬ 
place was a great warm heart. 

She left the children nearly every day with Agnes 
and went house-hunting. At first, it was thrilling 
business, with always the hope that to-day the little 
place would be found. But it wasn't. January came 
and went and February blustered half of its way 
234 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


through the year. Nan was getting tired. All the 
attractive houses were too expensive. All the others 
were “ one of a row.” She decided to leave the 
agents alone and go exploring herself. 

So on one of those surprising days in winter 
when the air is as soft and tender as a first kiss and 
Spring seems surely to be only just around the cor¬ 
ner, Nan started out. She had noted several roads 
she wanted to investigate, roads winging off the 
main streets, roads alluring to a poet, but forbid¬ 
ding to a motorist. On one of these Parker stopped 
the car. 

“ I didn’t put the chains on, Miss, and I don’t 
think we’d better try to go any further through this 
mud without them. Do you really think there’s 
anything this way to look at?” he finished doubt¬ 
fully. 

Nan knew there was. She had seen it from a hill¬ 
top in the town, a little house cuddled deep in a 
pine grove. It might be very disappointing, it 
might not be for sale, but this was surely the road 
to it, and she had to see. 

“ I’ll walk. Wait here for me, Parker.” 

She started out, rubberless, of course, but de¬ 
termined. Parker protested but Nan waded on, 
cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Maybe she was a 
little idiot but at least she’d be satisfied. 

235 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


She was gone so long that Parker finally followed. 
He discovered her sitting on the rickety porch 
scribbling busily in a note-book. 

“ It’s the place, Parker,” she cried. “ Just what 
I’ve been looking for. Terribly shabby and floppity 
in spots—look out for that first step—but adorable. 
There was a window broken. I crawled through— 
want to ? ” 

Parker was polite but dubious. Perhaps she 
knew. He supposed paint would help, and new 
windows. 

“ It’s for sale. Through that agent we’ve been 
to six times. Take me back there at once, Parker. 
We mustn’t lose this.” 

Parker privately thought there wouldn’t be much 
danger. In silently increasing amazement he re¬ 
turned her to the agent and heard her announce 
a short ten minutes later that the house was theirs. 
They could move in to-morrow. 

“ And will you? ” 

Nan laughed merrily. 

“ Mercy no! There’ll be plumbers and carpen¬ 
ters and painters rushed out there, and I shall have 
to buy-” 

She fell into an ecstatic revery. Rag rugs all 
through, to go with the white woodwork. How 
stunning Bruce’s antique mahogany would look in 
236 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


that living-room. Painted furniture in the dining¬ 
room and all the bedrooms. It was cheap—at least 
as cheap as anything pretty could be—and always 
attractive. That big room up-stairs across the front 
with the fireplace should be the children's. She’d 
take the tiny alcove room opening from it—queer 
little room, dear little room. Big enough for a bed 
and a bureau. Anyway she’d be near Bob and 
Shirley and that would leave a nice room for Miss 
Burton and a splendid room at the back of the house 
for Bruce. His was down two little steps and over 
the kitchen. It had three windows and a glorious 
view on to an apple orchard and distant rolling hills. 

Nan could scarcely wait to tell Bruce of her find. 
She changed her muddy clothes, hurried through 
her dinner and went flying to the den. On the way 
Perkins informed her that Mr. Wilson had tele¬ 
phoned he would not be back till late. He had left 
a telephone number if anything important came up. 
Nan, suddenly impatient, stamped her foot, shook 
her head, smiled and went on. At least she would 
leave a note on his desk, a triumphant shout of their 
good luck asking him to go with her to the place as 
soon as he could. Could he to-morrow? 

At the door of his den she paused abruptly. Then 
with a low exclamation she went in. The room 
was in such confusion as she had never seen it. 
237 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Books pulled from the bookcases and strewn over 
the floor, an inkwell upset and dribbling its murky 
contents over scattered papers on the desk; drawers 
half opened and in complete disorder. Nan knew 
in a flash that Shirley had escaped Agnes’ watchful 
eye and had satisfied her curiosity regarding 
Daddy’s desk. 

Her sharp exclamation was followed by a soft 
laugh. No real harm had been done, except for 
the inky mess. Apparently this had offered genuine 
entertainment for the imaginative child. The black 
river was filled with little clips and pen points and 
matches that had served their turn as boats. 

Nan set to work cleaning up. First the books 
and the papers and pencils scattered over the floor. 
Then the desk. She wiped up the ink, washed off 
the desk top, threw away the big blotter and finally 
sat down in an orderly room to glance over the 
papers that had been soaked. Fortunately Shirley 
seemed to have gotten hold of nothing but letter¬ 
heads—blank sheets. Nan gave a sigh of relief and 
was about to cast them into the waste-basket after 
the blotter when something familiar caught her eye. 
For a second her heart ceased beating, then she 
quickly picked up one of the cleanest sheets and 
looked at it closely. 

Across the middle of the page in unmistakable 
238 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


clearness were the words—“ The Eastern Silk Com¬ 
panies, Inc.” 

Nan put down the papers and closed her eyes. 
It couldn’t be true. She must be dreaming again. 
Why, “ The Eastern Silk Companies ” was the 
Trust that had wiped her father’s business out of 
existence. That name and that letter-head were as 
familiar to her as her right hand. What were they 
doing here? 

Opening her eyes again she bent close and rapidly 
read the names of the officers of the company. Her 
heart was beating wildly, a sinking sensation almost 
overwhelmed her, but she had to find out. She had 
to know if Bruce or his father had been in any way 
connected with that hated Trust. Ah, there it was. 
“ Secretary—Robert Wilson.” Knowledge came 
with the cruel keenness of a knife. Bruce’s father, 
then, was the “ Robert ” who had so terribly failed 
her father in friendship. 


239 




CHAPTER XVI 


Nan brushed her hand across her eyes and forced 
herself to consecutive action. Action first—plenty 
of time for thinking later. She must get out of 
here leaving no trace of her discovery. Bruce 
mustn’t know she knew this—not yet. Not until 
she had gotten everything unmistakably clear in her 
mind. First she would finish cleaning up. Me¬ 
chanically, with feeling and thought held in abey¬ 
ance, she wiped each little clip and put it back in 
the box; wiped the pens and put them away; picked 
up the smeared black matches; stretched a fresh 
blotter over the pad; shut the drawers tight; rang 
for Agnes to come empty the overflowing scrap- 
basket and finally wrote a note to Bruce. 

“ I think I have found a home that will please 
you although it needs repairing and many other 
things. I obtained an option on it. Nan.” 

She read and reread the note. It didn’t satisfy. 
There was in it no lilt of joy that her quest was 
ended. Bruce would know something was wrong 
and he mustn’t yet. Oh, well, what did it matter? 
Perhaps the sooner he knew and made an explana¬ 
tion, if there was one to make, the better. At any 
rate she could plead she was too tired to write en¬ 
thusiastically. 


240 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


She rose and stood looking about the room. Was 
there anything more to be done? Oh, yes, Bruce 
might miss the destroyed papers. She would just 
peep to see if there were more. She opened one 
drawer after another and finally to her relief dis¬ 
covered another stack of the familiar letter-heads. 
Then that was all right. If he noticed a change 
of arrangement about his desk she would simply 
tell him Shirley upset things and she straightened 
up the best she could. 

Feeling was coming now, a terrible heaviness that 
hampered her breathing, and thoughts were dart¬ 
ing with fiery clearness through her brain. She 
folded the one inky paper she had kept, clutched it 
tightly in her cold hand, snapped off the light and 
went up to her room. 

Stretched flat on her back in the darkness mem¬ 
ories became clear to her; unanswered questions 
were answered; suspicion found a resting place for 
its feet and after an hour of agony, the turmoil in 
her head ceased. Jumbled thoughts had clicked into 
place like the little shiny bits of glass in a kaleido¬ 
scope, leaving a perfectly clear picture to her mind's 
eye. 

When the Anti-Trust Law had gone into effect, 
“ The Eastern Silk Companies, Inc.” had separated, 
presumably into the original companies. This was 
241 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


why Nan had no suspicion of these circumstances 
at the beginning. Bruce’s firm known as “ The Per¬ 
fection Silk Co.” was apparently not connected in 
any way with the Trust. Nan wondered if the 
name was only a cover used to delude; if the Trust 
still operated as a whole with its parts differentiated 
by name to hide the connection. She felt her sus¬ 
picion was not ungrounded. 

Now then, if she hadn’t known about Bruce, had 
he known about her ? Wouldn’t her name have been 
familiar to him even without her frank revelation 
of her story that day they travelled to New York 
together? She didn’t know. She had no way of 
finding out certainly. Well, no matter whether he 
knew from the beginning or not, he had known 
that day. She had omitted no detail of her fa¬ 
ther’s misfortune and she recalled with a dreadful 
dismay his attentive interest, his pointed questions. 
She remembered swiftly and with a growing un¬ 
derstanding his concern as he put certain queries 
to her and his evident relief at her answers. He 
discovered that day, yet he kept silence. 

Why? Why had he not made an honest con¬ 
fession at that time? A dignified acknowledgment 
of his relation to the miserable affair, or a clear 
explanation of his entire innocence? That would 
have allowed her to leave his house if she chose, or 
242 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


to discover for herself whether or not she visited 
the hatred she naturally felt for Wilson, Sr., on his 
son. One or the other of these things he should 
have done. He had kept silence and his silence led 
the way to still more distressing conclusions. 

It could mean but one thing. He had used the 
information she had given him to get in touch with 
Ferguson and was carrying out some underhanded 
scheme for marketing the machine, a scheme by 
which he would profit. 

Her mind leaped instantly to her first suspicion 
so speedily banished, weeks ago. It was ugly, sick¬ 
ening. But this time it stayed with her, a realiza¬ 
tion that was as clear as knowledge itself. Nan 
had no copy of the agreement made between her 
father and Ferguson. Bruce knew this. He was, 
then, undoubtedly planning to take as his share 
what actually belonged to Nan and Betty and the 
boys. 

Of course it was so. It explained so easily his 
unwillingness to talk business. Besides Bruce was 
his father’s son and his father had shown no honor. 
Why should his son? Nan smiled bitterly at the 
recollection of Bruce’s words to her on Christmas 
eve. Robert Wilson wasn’t understood! Bruce 
wanted Nan to know him as he really was. What 
story could Bruce possibly invent that would ever 
243 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


change her feeling for the man who had ruined her 
father ? 

Suspicion had set Nan’s love for Bruce tottering, 
but suspicion, armed with knowledge, gave it its 
death blow. It was useless to try and make fire on 
cold ashes. Nan knew that the heart-warming flame 
had gone out forever. No danger of her being 
fooled twice! Humiliation, anger and bitter dis¬ 
appointment, joining forces, swept over her in a 
torrent, drowning her until, strangled, she sprang 
up, a sob tearing from her heart to her lips. 

This, she thought, was hate, hate such as had 
conquered her mother, hate such as her father had 
conquered. What would it do to her? She didn’t 
know. She didn’t care. She walked up and down 
in the darkness of her room, her hands pressed 
against her throbbing head, trying to think some 
light into the darkness. One thing came certainly 
to her. She had to care. Hate was here, filling her 
life, turning all the brightness to blackness. It 
changed everything, couldn’t be ignored. She had 
to face it. She had to fight it, and beat or be 
beaten by it. 

Nan flung herself on her bed, her body pulsing 
with pain. And as she lay there in the darkness 
Bruce’s face constantly rose before her. His words, 
always the dear, tender things he had said, came 
244 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


to her mind. She let memory fill her, soothe her 
like slumber, and she came gradually to feel that 
a man who could look as Bruce did, who could do 
the fine things that she had known him to do, could 
not possibly be the scoundrel she had at first fancied 
him. 

Her love was clamoring for a foothold. It had 
been too dear and beautiful to be wiped out of ex¬ 
istence all in a moment. Nan began to hope there 
was some explanation, some simple statement that 
could clear away all this trouble. She would at 
least give him an opportunity to square himself. 
Any condemnation of him now was really unjust, 
no matter how guilty circumstances might seem to 
paint him. 

She decided to go to him at once with her dis¬ 
coveries, question him frankly and get at the truth 
of the matter. It was the only way. A little calm 
came with this resolution. She bathed herself, 
dressed and got through the evening in a dumb, dead 
sort of misery. 

But the next day—it was Sunday—Nan stayed 
close to the children in a frenzy of fear lest Bruce, 
in reply to her note, would appear and joyfully ring 
out his applause, happy-heartedly demand her com¬ 
pany on a tour of inspection. 

This is just what happened. Nan heard him call- 
245 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ing her and a dark flush spread swiftly to her face, 
to recede as quickly, leaving her unusually pale. By 
the time Bruce reached her she was composed, but 
her ringed eyes, so full of pain, bore out her excuse 
that she “ really wasn't feeling well enough to 

g°” 

Bruce was regretful and greatly concerned. Nan, 
because the children were close by, played up and 
threw a mock enthusiasm into her description of the 
house that interested and satisfied Bruce. 

“ Half of the fun of looking at it is gone if you 
can't go with me,” he said. “ I'd just as soon take 
your word for it.” 

But Nan shook her head. That really wouldn't 
do. He would live there longer than she, she said 
quietly, and he must personally inspect the place. 
She couldn't take the responsibility. 

While he was gone Nan faced herself sternly. 
No use to put off the interview no matter how afraid 
she was. It would be terrible to find out she was 
right—she didn't think she could bear it—but she 
could not go on not knowing. It put her in an im¬ 
possible position. She couldn't pretend nothing had 
happened. The old dear sweetness had gone en¬ 
tirely from their relationship and she could no 
longer meet his frankness and friendliness. Neither 
could she act as she felt without giving him some 
246 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


explanation. She would see him as soon as he re¬ 
turned. 

She heard him come in while the children were at 
supper. With instructions to Agnes to bathe them 
and put them to bed, she went quietly down the 
stairs and stood before the open door of his den. 
To his quick glance Nan appeared as usual, her gold 
hair smooth over a white brow, her deep gray eyes 
sweet, her manner a little more quiet—weary per¬ 
haps—but composed. She came into the room and 
faced him. 

“ No, I won’t sit down, thank you. I’m glad you 
liked the house. My headache—it doesn’t matter. 
That isn’t the thing.” 

A sharp little second of silence during which 
Nan’s great questioning eyes never left Bruce’s, 
while into his sprang sudden fear, then the steeli¬ 
ness of battle familiar to her. 

“ What is the thing? ” quietly. 

“ Shirley got into your desk while I was away, 
pulled out papers, upset ink. I was cleaning it up— 
and saw this.” She held out the inky letter-head. 

Bruce glanced at it, then down at her. 

“ Well?” 

The paper fluttered between them on the floor. 
Nan’s little hands grasped the back of a chair. She 
was trembling. 


247 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


“ Bruce—please—can’t you explain ? ” 

She wanted to say more, to cry out that her fa¬ 
ther always believed there was a mistake, that she 
wanted to believe it. Couldn’t he make her? But 
there was a lump in her throat past which words 
would not go. Her eyes begged him. 

“ Well? ” he asked again. 

His coolness suddenly angered her. She turned 
on him swiftly. 

“ Is that all you can say ? What of your meetings 
with Ferguson? What of your new business, so 
new and absorbing? Why don’t you tell me about 
it? I know! You needn’t trouble. It’s because 
you’re not playing square. How could you? You 
are your father’s son. All’s fair in business to men 
like you.” 

“ How did you know I was meeting Ferguson? ” 

“ It’s true then! ” Pain sharpened Nan’s voice. 
“ I heard him. I knew his voice. You are using 
the fruit of his brain to profit yourself. It’s des¬ 
picable.” 

She caught her breath, fighting back a tumult of 
sobs. Facing him with head upflung she waited for 
his quick denial, for his eager explanation. But 
with his eyes steadily on her he held silence. Nan’s 
anger died and she grew frightened. Would he 
never speak? Her stiff angry attitude melted into 
248 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


one of pleading. She must be wrong. She had not 
believed all she said when she flew at him. It was to 
jolt the truth from him that she had accused him 
so bitterly; to end his cool little series of “ Wells? " 

But his regard, measured and distant, gave her no 
hint of what was going on in his mind. The si¬ 
lence thundered in Nan's ears. She summoned a 
control as calm as his. 

“You can give me no explanation? You can 
answer none of my questions ? " 

From a vast distance his reply came. 

“No. I am sorry. I can say nothing that will 
explain matters." 

Nan still stood breathing hard, struggling for 
composure. She was bewildered. She had ex¬ 
pected anything but this. A denial, or an acknowl¬ 
edgment she had been prepared for, but this sharp 

refusal to discuss the matter- Nan felt as 

though she had been running a race, had turned a 
sharp corner and dashed into a stone wall. She was 
flung back, hurt and helpless. 

At last through the haze of emotions that clutched 
at her, rose one more dominant than the others. 
Nan drew herself to her full height, her eyes two 
smoking fires in a small white face. 

“ You taught me to believe in you, and because 
of you to believe in the goodness of all men," she 
249 






THE DEAR PRETENDER 


said quietly. “ You gave me something beautiful, 
something too precious for words. And now 
you have taken it away. Do you know what it 
means ? ” 

A breath that was a groan escaped from the man. 
In that second Nan knew he knew. Someone, his 
wife, had done the same thing to him—and he had 
cared as she, Nan, cared. Surely now he would 
speak. He wouldn’t leave her with this hurt, this 
hurt that would never heal because only he could 
heal it, and he was letting this one chance go by. 

The moment passed. Bruce lifted his shoulders 
ever so slightly, his eyes still on her in an inscruta¬ 
ble expression. Nan’s tears were struggling wildly 
within her. 

“ I’m going,” she said abruptly. 

Bruce bent his head. It was her privilege under 
the circumstances, he remarked, and with the de¬ 
tached politeness he had given her upon her first 
arrival, he held open the door as she passed out. 


250 




CHAPTER XVII 


Nan had meant to go only to her room, but 
Bruce’s interpretation of her words made her change 
her mind. Swiftly, with a hot heart she set about 
packing her things. Everything-—everything—for 
she would never come back. It was all over—her 
dream—and Bruce had spoken the truth. Dreams 
were only bubbles that vanished in one’s grasp. One 
must, sooner or later, reach the place where pretend¬ 
ing did no good. Here she was at the place. 

What a child she had been! She burned with 
scorn for her foolishness. Well, it was over now. 
Her illusions were gone, and after the pain of this 
had healed, she would be untouchable. Nothing 
would ever get through again. Never in the future 
could she be so hurt because her cynicism would 
save her. She had been right in the beginning not 
to trust men. It was the only safe way to go 
through life. However, it was easy to get back to 
that frame of mind. A bitter, wise little smile curled 
her mouth. It was amusing to remember that Bruce 
had first been the cause of removing her easy distrust 
of men creatures, and was now the cause of its 
return. 

Pulling open her bureau drawers Nan flung up 
her head and caught a glimpse of herself in the 
251 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


mirror. With a little gasp of dismay, she stared, 
then leaning forward slowly she looked again. 

It was her mother's face she had seen. A tran¬ 
sient expression passing over her young features 
had stamped them for a moment with the look she 
remembered hating as a child. Hard suspicion, 
cold and ugly, was there, mirrored opposite her for 
a fleeting instant. 

“ But I don't want to grow old like that.” 

Nan sat down on the bed. Her room, strewn 
over with clothes, represented the disorder of Nan's 
mind. Long, long thoughts they were that came 
to her that evening and Nan scarcely stirred until 
she had them all clearly laid out before her. 

To grow old as her mother had, meant letting 
hate dominate her thoughts. To grow old as she 
wished to meant not revealing the disappointments 
that life held, not admitting—ever—even to herself, 
that the things that shone so beautifully from a 
distance in youth, were tinsel—and tarnished at 
that—when she came close to them. The truth of 
things was ugly. She could go happily through the 
years only by making believe. If this that had come 
to her, this realization of the realities of life, was 
not to disfigure her fresh young charm and turn 
living into a matter of mere stoical endurance, she 
must continue her pretend game. 

252 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


She must pretend she didn’t hate and despise 
Bruce. More than that, she must pretend he had 
never done what he had, that she still believed in 
him, that there was beauty in life—real life, not a 
make-believe existence,—even though she had dis¬ 
covered there wasn’t. 

Could she do this ? 

Nan drew a long slow breath. 

Could she pretend nothing had happened when 
everything had? Could she stay on, making the 
move to a small house where she and Bruce would 
be huddled close, eating two meals a day together, 
enduring an enforced companionship from which 
all pleasantness had gone? Oh, it was unthinkable. 

Nan sprang up. She didn’t have to. She could 
begin her pretending somewhere else, with new peo¬ 
ple, in a new place. It was impossible for her to 
stay here. 

But in her heart she knew she was running away 
from the issue. This was the battle-ground. She 
would be losing the first fight if she left now. 
There was a stiffness about Nan once she knew what 
she must do, and when suddenly a sharp memory 
of Bobby boy stabbed her, her decision was 
made. 

Bob—the boy of her heart—was here, still need¬ 
ing her. She couldn’t consider leaving now. His 
253 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


need was as great as ever, though her desire to re¬ 
main had lessened. If she went there was no one 
to take her place. Miss Burton, dear soul, had 
kindness but no understanding. Agnes had that, but 
no wisdom. Bobby’s eyes gravely regarding her, 
their seriousness almost a reproach, came before 
her vision and with a sigh and a smile that was sad 
but somehow sweet this time, she rose and began 
picking up her clothes. 

She would stay. Because it was the thing to do 
and because Bob really needed her. But how too 
bad that life which had been of a simplicity utterly 
sweet, was all in a dreadful moment complicated 
and uneasy. Pretending! Oh, it was only feeding 
on husks! She had done it always and had always 
felt starved. Wasn’t there any real food for a 
hungry heart? Nan had made herself believe for 
so long in a beauty and loveliness existing some¬ 
where that it was difficult to give it up now. Was 
it to be found only in things ? In houses and clothes 
and such? What of the beauty in sky and music 
and sea? The beauty that made you ache to an¬ 
swer a question you couldn’t ask? What was the 
question and what was the answer ? Life held them 
both somewhere- 

Nan went down that night and told Bruce she 
had reconsidered. In a dignity that was cool and 
254 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


yet somehow appealing she gave Bobby as her rea¬ 
son for staying. For a brief second a light flashed 
in his eyes but following it came that measuring 
regard with which he had first studied her. Nan 
met it steadily, and at his formal thanks she merely 
bent her head and left the room. 

The days went by. Nan was busy superintend¬ 
ing the renovations that were going on in the new 
little house. She possessed a practicality that long 
years of doing her own housework had given her, 
and the satisfaction of accomplishing miracles in 
the matter of high sinks and convenient shelves and 
closets against the conventional objections of car¬ 
penters who “ never heard of such a thing/’ made 
up in some small measure for the heartache that was 
with her most of the time. 

It was to have been such fun! This refurbishing 
and refurnishing of Nan’s house of dreams. She 
had anticipated with such eagerness the domestic 
consultations with Bruce. And they were—what 
were they? Brief businesslike reports, given 
gravely and competently by a girl in whose eyes lay 
a deep sickness of the heart. Courteous thanks 
given coldly by a man whose face was a mask. Oh, 
it was bitter business! And Nan, up in her room, 
crossed off the weeks each Sunday night. That 
was the only way she could do it. By taking time 
255 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


in small doses, pretending each week was her last, 
she could go through with it. 

On a Sunday late in March Nan was alone in 
the new little house. She had been busy all day, 
hanging curtains, putting up pictures, making the 
beds with their cool, clean sheets, and now at last 
the place stood holding a warm fragrant welcome 
to the coming family. 

Nan, waiting for the sound of the approaching 
machine, passed through it. She was feeling com¬ 
placent, as competent housewives who have created 
a vision, do. The kitchen, with its blue and white 
spotlessness, was her pet achievement. She was 
glad that the colored cook was an appurtenance still 
to be acquired. It had been dear business, moving 
about in the cleanness of this workshop, slicing 
pungent ham, stirring up fluffy biscuits, arranging 
crisp cool salad on dainty flowered plates. 

In the dining-room glasses and silver spread on 
the round table gleamed and shone in the late after¬ 
noon sun. Bright jonquils, made out of the sun¬ 
shine itself, nodded reassurance of the coming of 
spring. Nan, glancing out of broad, clear window- 
panes onto the apple orchard and distant woods and 
hills thought she loved this room best. 

But in the living-room she surprised herself by 
suddenly laying a wet cheek in the hollow of a fa- 
256 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


miliar chair where Bruce’s head had so often rested. 
This was really the room on which Nan had spent 
most thought, because it was Bruce’s. She had 
placed the furniture as nearly corresponding to the 
way it had stood in his den, as it was possible. 
Bright red berries gleaming in a bronze vase; a 
lamp leaning at just the right angle over his desk; 
the cigarette stand, handily at his elbow, the fire 
burning in the wide stone fireplace,—it was cosy, 
surely. Cosy and dear and saying for Nan the 
things she could never say herself. She had wanted 
this room, which Bruce would enter first, to reassure 
him at once, to fulfill the promise she had made 
him in the distant days,—that moving here wasn’t 
“ going to be as hard as he imagined.” 

With a sudden rush out of the Sabbath stillness 
they arrived, the children curious, slightly ill-at- 
ease; Miss Burton’s praise tumbling like a cataract 
of water from a full heart; Bruce, after a sudden 
surprised glance, conventionally appreciative. But 
Nan, who had seen that first look, was satisfied. 
The wee house had given its message. 

“ Little low hooks in this closet under the stairs 
for little low folks,” she cried gaily. “ Now shall 
we peep up-stairs before supper? ” 

The next few hours were almost as Nan had 
dreamed them; Shirley and Bob, soon at home, ex- 
257 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


citedly interested in everything, dashing madly 
through the house; Miss Burton, flustered and anx¬ 
ious to help, beginning many things which she left 
unfinished in her gentle flurry to assist in some 
other place; Bruce, amused, efficient, giving Nan 
more help with supper than anyone, quieting the 
children, teasing Miss Burton;—oh, it was won¬ 
derful! For he was almost the dear familiar Bruce 
except for his careful restraint when he turned to 
Nan. 

They lingered at the round candle-lit table until 
the last bit of light had left the sky and a night 
breeze began singing in the branches of the pine 
trees outside the cottage. A little silence fell, a 
silence that held a sense of peace, and safety and 
still deep joy. In the relaxation of the moment 
Nan's eyes met Bruce's and found there a warmth 
and hunger and hurt that startled the breath from 
her body. She rose hastily. 

“ Bedtime, chicken-children,” she said gently. 
“ Nan will tell you the story up-stairs.” 

When she came down again to wash the dishes 
she found Miss Burton had been ahead of her, the 
dining-room was cleared and the kitchen left in dark 
orderliness. Nan went through to the living-room 
to express her thanks and stopped abruptly at the 
door. 


258 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


For Miss Burton had apparently gone to her room 
and Bruce in the soft light of a low lamp was 
stretched in the big chair before the fire. Nan 
started to withdraw, but Bruce was on his feet to 
check her. 

“ Where are you going? ” 

“ To my room.” 

“ You dignify that little alcove with such a name. 
Nan, you have thought of everyone’s comfort but 
your own. Now I shall think of yours. Do you 
expect to spend every evening in a six-by-eight 
cubby-hole where you have no chair, no desk, noth¬ 
ing but a bed and bureau? ” 

" No—but—I am tired.” 

“ Let’s be honest a moment, call a truce and de¬ 
cide what our relationship shall be. Isn’t it possible 
to be friendly enemies? Can’t you sit in a room 
here and enjoy its comforts with me, knowing that 
I won’t intrude in any way ? ” 

That is the only sensible thing to do, of course.” 

With her heart knocking Nan took one of the 
two deep chairs and picked up a magazine. But the 
reader may wonder if these two, so busily turning 
pages, weren’t each of them playing the pretend 
game with set teeth and a grim determination to 
stick it through. Certain it is that Nan never once 
lost consciousness of the man sitting within three 
259 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


feet of her, of his hands so familiar to her in their 
lean strength, of his quiet risings to poke at the 
blaze; the frown on his forehead, as he lit cigarette 
after cigarette. 

The silence deepened about them, becoming in¬ 
creasingly unbearable to the slim girl in the wide 
chair. Contradictory memories, crowding her mind, 
gave pause to the fluttering pages. Bruce’s look that 
dreadful evening in the den after her discovery. 
And Bruce’s look at supper to-night—what was be¬ 
hind it? An entreaty for a second hearing? Let 
him ask for it then! Distinctly it was his move. 
He had refused the first opportunity she had given 
him for explaining. Let him beg for the second. 
Her good-night coming shortly after this was flung 
over her shoulder with more brusqueness than she 
had intended. 

Days followed, days of brisk, busy beginnings 
when the informal breakfast was a more or less 
helter-skelter affair, hours of routine household 
work and lessons, when Shirley and Bob, entranced 
by the novelty and responsibility of new duties, sped 
the morning hours. Then came luncheon when Nan 
was grateful that the colored woman had material¬ 
ized to do the tiresome dish-washing. Afternoons 
were given over to playing, and the woods on the 
other side of the apple orchard back of the wee white 
260 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


cottage proved a fairy land for the children. They 
found a tumbling brook which Bob declared was 
heaps better than the sea because it was always 
" little ” and “ different.” Nan never failed to dis¬ 
cover something new and tremendously interesting 
in the fragrant depths of the trees, for spring, with 
its warm breath, was wooing the forest to give up 
the secrets it had held all winter. The three of them 
returned day after day, muddy, tired, happy, proud 
under their burdens of spring flowers. 

The children always had dinner with their father 
now. Nan quietly arranged that so as to avoid 
what might be a difficult hour; but even so, there 
remained always the long evenings, when Miss Bur¬ 
ton, dropping her pattering excuses and thanks, in¬ 
evitably returned to her room; when the efficient 
Sarah, through with her work for the day, stuck 
her black good-natured face around the door to 
say good-night before she went her way to her 
own home down the road; when the house fell 
into a stillness that should have been peace and 
wasn't. 

Nan came to dread the evenings. There was 
growing upon her a sense of desperation. Here she 
was committed to hate Bruce by his own actions, 
yet committed to pretending she didn't hate him 
to save herself and Bobby. It was beginning to be 
261 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


a muddle. For Bruce, although his eyes never be¬ 
trayed him again, although his manner never varied 
from distant politeness, so worked upon Nan that 
she found herself with difficulty holding back the 
cry that was in her heart. 

For Nan wanted his friendship, wanted it on any 
basis. Wanted it so badly that she was almost ready 
to give the signal herself and that was the muddle 
of it. By pretending she didn’t hate, had no reason 
for hating, she was almost persuaded that it was 
true. There had been some dreadful mistake some¬ 
where and if she only gave Bruce a second chance, 
he could explain and he would. 

Nan’s pride and loyalty to her father’s memory 
battled with her desire and between the two of them 
Nan herself grew worn and white. Spring with its 
enervating warmth crept into her pulses and after 
long busy days with the tireless children, the even¬ 
ings, filled with a joy that was pain, became torture. 
Spring! and the cosiness of a dear wee home, and 
this unhappy happiness—it was all more than Nan 
could stand. 

A solution of the problem came to her as so many 
had, swiftly and clearly. She could go. She could 
go to her sister’s whose young baby she had never 
seen. Miss Burton could manage all right, with 
Sarah. She would call it a vacation, and just keep 
262 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


away for a week or ten days. That would be all 
she needed. 

Bruce met her suggestion with a nod. 

“ Good idea. You look peaked. I’ve noticed 
it for a long time.” Nan’s heart doubled time. 
“ Go as soon as you want and stay—as long as you 
want. We can manage.” 

Nan’s glance fell before his meaningful one. 

“ Thank you. That’s very good of you. A week 
will probably be all I need. It’s spring fever, I 
think.” She laughed a little. 

“ I really meant that.” He held her eyes to his. 
“You made a promise to stay with Bob under— 
happy circumstances. You’ve been a splendid sport 
but I think it’s time you were released. Bob— 
there’s very little occasion to worry about him. 
Don’t tell the children you are not coming back. 
Just go feeling you are quite free to rest as long as 
you care to and that everything will be all right.” 

What did it mean? Was it a dismissal? Nan, 
up in her room, going over and over every expres¬ 
sion and word, finally decided that there was no 
other way to take it. Bruce had had enough. He 
didn’t even want her for Bob. She slipped to her 
knees by her bed and with her head on her arms 
cried silently. When the house was asleep under 
the whispering pines, she rose and began to pack. 

263 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


She dragged out her little trunk from under her bed 
and packed everything she owned. 

The next day Nan was at her gayest. She told 
the children at the end of it that she was going 
away to see a new baby and when she came back 
she would bring pictures of him and lots of won¬ 
derful stories. 

But when the taxicab whirled to the door and 
rushed her from Bob's brave smile and Shirley's 
honest grief and Miss Burton's gasping astonish¬ 
ment, she gulped down a sob that would rise and 
pressed a crumpled handkerchief to her brimming 
eyes, for in her heart Nan knew she was leaving 
forever. 


264 




CHAPTER XVIII 


Nan had been with Betty a month and it had 
seemed a year. At first—that first week—the days 
had flown. Betty’s welcome had been a genuine 
one of joy, followed at once by an hysterical burst 
of tears, because the young sister was worn to the 
point of exhaustion with the responsibility and care 
of her baby. Nan had eagerly stepped into the 
breach. It gave her no time to think and she was 
glad not to be able to; glad to find herself busily 
rushing about from early morning until late at 
night. She took upon her slim young shoulders 
the complete care of the baby and most of the house. 
Betty was to rest. Betty was to sleep late. Betty 
was to go calling without trundling the baby car¬ 
riage ; Betty was to entertain for dinner and never 
give a thought to the meal; Betty was to go out in 
the evening with her husband; Betty was to dance 
and play bridge- 

And Betty did. Reassured by Nan’s repeated 
assertion that she had jumped from the lap of lux¬ 
ury in pure ennui, she gratefully slid the burden 
from her shoulders and minded Nan as she had in 
the days of their childhood. 

But after the first week Nan had her work system¬ 
atized. The baby was good and David was a 
265 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


darling about helping with dishes. Shy and self- 
conscious before this strangely familiar sister, he 
wondered if she knew how grown-up he was; how 
much he knew; how far back those days were when 
she had bossed him. 

Somehow Nan did know. She managed to con¬ 
vey to him the proper respect and very real pride 
she honestly felt as her glance rested on the quiet, 
clear-faced lad whose eyes held bright visionings of 
the life before him. Would Bob grow up like this? 
Bobby who had been so much like Davey as a baby ? 
She wondered, and as she wondered came a sharp 
pain, for she knew she would never know. Bob was 
gone out of her life and Shirley and Bruce. 

And after the first few weeks of social gaieties 
a natural reaction set in for Betty. She longed for 
the cuddling care of her baby, for quiet hours in her 
neat little kitchen, for happy, idle times in her sunny 
bedroom with her mending in her lap and her son 
gurgling contentedly on the floor beside her. This 
meant leisure for Nan, an unwanted, troublesome 
leisure. 

There s no use talking, Nan-shine, work is hap¬ 
pier business than playing.” 

With a fresh pink apron over her morning dress, 
she followed Nan out into the kitchen, carrying the 
dirty breakfast dishes. Together the two of them 
266 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


began to scrape and stack, wash and wipe, age-old 
business, stupid,—but somehow enjoyable after a 
vacation from it 

“ I think,” Betty went on, “ women are bom con¬ 
trary. They always want what they haven’t. Here 
I’ve been grumbling and fussing about doing the 
dishes and being sleepy in the morning when Sunny 
wants his six-o’clock bottle, grouching around be¬ 
cause we can’t go out more,—and all the time I’m 
really as happy as I can stick.” 

Her clear, laughing eyes met Nan’s serious ones 
and became serious too. 

“ It’s true, Nan-shine.” A brightness filled her 
face. “ I’m bursting with the joy of living. If— 
you know ”—she wrinkled a white young brow in 
her search for the thought,—“ if you live this way 
with the right person, it’s like coming into a port 
after a storm. Like—I don’t know how to say it— 
like having all your questions answered that you 
didn’t know how to ask.” 

Odd—this wording of Nan’s own vague thought. 
Her silence made the younger sister look around. 
Nan stood bending over the ice-box, * putting 
away milk and butter. But something frozen in 
her profile made Betty give her a 6udden acute 
glance. 

“ Nan!” 

26 f 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan straightened and looked squarely back into 
the searching eyes. 

“ You look dreadfully, and I’ve been too piggy 
to see. I bet you came home tired,—and I’ve let 
you do everything-” 

“ Nonsense, I’m perfectly all right.” 

But Betty's contrition was established. 

“ Go up and rest, or out and walk.” 

“ Nonsense,” Nan said again. She evaded her 
sister laughingly and went back into the dining¬ 
room for more dishes. Betty followed her, caught 
her by the shoulder and swung her about. 

“You don’t ever settle down and talk. You’re 
always going somewhere else. Stay still, won’t 
you?” 

“ Well?” 

“ When are you going back ? ” 

At the abruptness of this the color flooded Nan’s 
white face. 

“ Never, dear,” she said quietly. “ But don’t ask 
me—please—anything-” 

Betty didn’t. But she watched Nan tenderly, 
wistfully—and she wondered at great length about 
Nan with her honest-faced, adoring young husband, 
and she noticed that the shadow in Nan’s eyes deep¬ 
ened whenever Harold showed an especial tender¬ 
ness for herself or their boy, and often Nan, during 
268 




THU DEAR PRETENDER 


one of their intimate ecstasies over their own hap¬ 
piness, would rise and abruptly leave the room. 

April with its sweet breaths; its warm high winds 
and flying clouds; April with its smiles and tears; 
its wee girlies skipping rope; its youthful manhood 
rolling marbles in muddy gutters; its hurdy-gurdys 
grinding out their whining, raggedy tunes; and its 
“ peanut-man ” whose shrill whistle was the trumpet 
call to summer; April came and went. And Nan 
knew she must face herself honestly, decide what 
to do and begin doing it. 

But the days passed and Nan had settled noth¬ 
ing. A sort of frenzy seized her one lovely after¬ 
noon in early May and seeking to escape from it 
she bundled Sunny in his carriage and pushed him 
rapidly along the streets. 

Overhead the feathery green of trees had grown 
into a solid roof arching over the streets and spread¬ 
ing cool, black shadows on the warm sidewalks. In 
the freshly raked gardens before each house, cro¬ 
cuses marched in straight rows, flinging their gay 
colors bravely to the fragrant breezes; the sunshine 
was liquid gold and the world was meant for love 
and laughter. 

But Nan’s edgy thoughts spoiled the beauty of 
the day. Only this morning she had quarrelled with 
Betty and so foolishly. Over the way to cook tap- 
269 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


ioca pudding! Oh, she must go. Soon. Before 
any more of these nonsensical little differences of 
opinion about the way of washing dishes or train¬ 
ing the baby or setting the table put a strain on 
the dear relationship existing between the two sis¬ 
ters. It was Betty’s house and Betty’s business 
anyhow. Why was it two women couldn’t let each 
other alone? The trouble was every woman ought 
to have her own kitchen, even if she had no other 
room in the world. 

But anyway, aside from that she must go. Her 
money was used up. 

And then this restlessness that had seized her. 
She must get away from that. Perhaps somewhere 
else, working, she would settle down, find content¬ 
ment, lose this sense of being futilely driven about 
like a leaf in the wind, unable to find a resting-place; 
this sense of nibbling at other folks’ happiness and 
never being satisfied with a good bite of her own. 
Was this life? Was it to be her life? 

Nan shrugged impatiently. Useless unanswer¬ 
able questions. The thing was, what to do ? 

But she wasn’t cut out to be a saint,—a picture 
of perfect resignation- 

Oh! It was no use, absolutely no use. Sharply 
she turned to go back to Betty’s house. Tears would 
come for no reason at all. She’d better get home 
270 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and do her crying in solitude behind the vined 
verandah. 

As she approached the square stucco house, so 
like the others up and down the street, a vision of 
the irregular little white house with its gable roof 
snuggled under whispering pines came to her. The 
tears sprang to her eyes, and when she had brushed 
them away she was opposite the walk leading to the 
front steps. 

A blue-uniformed boy was coming down the 
street. Strangely, a premonition seized Nan. She 
waited until he drew close. 

“ This Mrs. Cort's house? ” 

Nan nodded. 

“ Miss Carter here ? " 

“ I am Miss Carter." 

He flipped the yellow envelope at her. 

“ Sign here." 

Through the din that rang in her ears Nan heard 
him and mechanically obeyed. Then, still stand¬ 
ing by the carriage, she ripped open the envelope 
and pulled out the telegram. Instantly the tumult 
within her died. 


“ Bob dangerously ill with pneumonia. Can you 
come? 


E. Burton." 


271 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan smiled at the heavens above her, thrust the 
sheet in her pocket and went into the house. 

When Betty returned from a bridge party an 
hour later she found Nan in her travelling suit, her 
face veiled but her eyes shining through a suspicious 
brightness of tears, like stars. She had her suitcase 
in her hand. 

“ Why, Nan! What-” 

“ Bobby’s sick. They’ve sent for me. Sunny’s 
had his supper. He’s in his pen. I set the table 
and peeled the potatoes. You’ll find everything else 
ready in the ice-box. Don’t stop me, dear, I’ll 
write.” 

With a swift kiss she was gone. 


272 




CHAPTER XIX 


Bobby couldn't be so terribly ill, not really. 
Probably Miss Burton had just got frightened. 
Bruce must be away, or he would have wired. That 
was it, of course. Bruce away, and Miss Burton, 
dear soul, was terrified at the responsibility of a sick 
child. Well, however it was, Nan was glad to go. 
Underneath her worry was a tremendous gladness 
that drove fear almost entirely away. For she 
would see Bruce again, and somehow, someway, 
she would make him talk, would make him explain. 
She would have another try, for during the lonely, 
difficult weeks behind her, Nan's pride had melted 
away. She blamed herself for the failure of her 
first attempt to get an explanation of this miserable 
business. She had been wrong, all wrong, to ac¬ 
cuse him as she had before he had said a word. 
Of course he had withdrawn into silence. She had 
hurt him terribly. She would have done the same 
thing. Thank heaven for this second chance. She 
wouldn't fumble matters this time. 

But three hours later when she entered the wee 
little cottage under the whispering pines, all thoughts 
of herself fled. For the atmosphere was charged 
with dread. A hush was in the air, footsteps soft¬ 
ened, the silent nursery darkened, and in the white 
273 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


bed, Bob, flushed with fever, lay tossing in a de¬ 
lirium. 

“ Call a nurse,” Nan ordered promptly, dropping 
her coat and hat in her room. “ Where’s Shirley ? ” 

“ The doctor’s trying to get a nurse,” Miss Bur¬ 
ton, red-eyed and trembling, whispered. She was a 
pathetic sight, her little old body shaken and her 
helpless hands wrung together in an agony of fear. 
“ They all seem to be busy—the flu, you know. 
Bruce is in California-” 

“ He’s been notified ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. He’s on his way back but it’ll take 
five days. Oh, Miss Nan, I’m so glad you’re—yes, 
Shirley’s at a neighbor’s. They’ve been so 
good-” 

When the doctor appeared an hour later, Nan 
was in charge of the sick boy. An expression of 
relief came into the physician’s eyes as his glance 
swept over the ordered room and the girl in her 
immaculate white skirt and waist. The steadiness 
of Nan’s gray eyes and her calm voice reassured 
him. 

“ It’s impossible to get a nurse, but I don’t think 
you are going to need one. Just follow directions 
and if you see any change notify me.” 

Nan nodded and began her vigil that afternoon. 
For three days and three nights she did not take 
274 : 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


off her clothes. Through the long, still day she sat 
by Bobby’s bed, dropping the medicine at regular 
intervals between his fevered lips, quieting his 
frenzied shouts for “ Nan,” cooling him with ice- 
bags, watching, always watching, with an untrained 
but intelligent eye for any perceptible change for 
better or worse. 

At midnight Miss Burton relieved her, but Nan, 
unwilling to trust the tired little woman’s shaken 
nerves, woke automatically every hour, and at dawn, 
with a quiet smile of reassurance and strength, she 
sent her back to her bed. 

Bob was seriously ill. There was no doubt of 
that. A wire from Bruce to Nan begged her for 
news. It came on the third day, and the doctor said 
the crisis would be reached that night. Nan de¬ 
cided to wait until it was over. 

The gray-haired man, with his comforting air of 
reassurance, arrived at ten o’clock, and Nan kneel¬ 
ing by Bobby’s bed, his thin little wrist in her 
fingers, gave him a wan smile. After a look at the 
face of the boy and an administration of medicine, 
he dropped into a big chair by the window. The 
room was in absolute silence except for the tiny 
ticking of the little clock. 

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time went mercilessly 
on. The hours crept to midnight, to one o’clock, to 
275 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


two and three o'clock. Still Nan never moved. At 
times her breath left her body, when Bob, paling 
slowly under the passage of minutes, seemed to lie 
in a dreadful stillness. But as the weary breath 
came through whitening lips. Nan's heart rushed 
heavenward in a wordless prayer. 

Suddenly the doctor stood by her side, and at a 
signal from him Nan rose stiffly and moved away. 
The man bent over the bed. Miss Burton hovered 
in the dim grayness of the room like a ghost. Nan 
went to the window and looked out. 

Dawn was coming. What would it bring? The 
rush and roar of a train desecrated the deep silence 
of the hour and Nan knew that somewhere Bruce 
was rushing home. Would he get here in time? 
Would he find- 

“ It's over, Miss Carter." 

The low voice frightened her as nothing ever had. 
Slowly she turned about, her big eyes in her white 
face, seeking his meaning. 

“ The crisis is past. The boy will pull through." 

Nan's tears ran down her smiling face, then quite 
suddenly and quite quietly she fainted. When she 
came to her senses she was in bed; Miss Burton was 
fluttering about her like a moth about a flame. Nan 
wished she would go away or say what it was she 
was trying to. A fresh-faced, quiet-stepping nurse 
276 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


appeared out of space and waved the moth away. 
Nan was told that a telegram had been sent to 
Bruce, Bobby was naturally and soundly asleep and 
she was to stay where she was until the next morn¬ 
ing. Quite willingly she obeyed. 

Except for her pallor Nan was herself again the 
following day. Except for that and a tremendously 
thumping heart. For to-day Bruce would arrive. 
To-day Nan would see him, talk to him, touch his 
hand- 

At every step on the porch the color flooded her 
white face, and her heart shook her to her heels. 
Where would they first meet? What would he 
say ? What should she say to him ? What attitude 
should she take? The old familiar dear one of 
genuine joy to see him? The stiff, constrained 
one in which she had left him ? Or should she leave 
it to him ? After all, she was not here at his sum¬ 
mons. She had been dismissed—hadn’t she better 
let him strike the note of welcome ? 

But supposing he didn’t? Supposing he were as 
frigid now as he was a month ago ? Then she would 
never get said the blundering, sorry little things she 
had over and over planned to say. “ Bruce—I want 
to apologize,—Bruce, can’t we begin again?— 
Bruce, it’s all been my fault-” 

Nan gathered her courage. She must fling all 

277 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


the old warmth into her welcome, must compel him 
to greet her as she wanted him to. Then, follow¬ 
ing that, her other words could easily come. 

She heard the taxicab whirl to the door, heard 
the dear, familiar step; his voice tingled through 
her whole body, and like a frightened mouse, she 
scuttled to her room. Not here before the nurse, 
before Bobby! She could never do it here! She 
must see him alone first. 

They met at the head of the stairs. Nan, hearing 
him come up after a quick lunch, plunged suddenly 
into the hall and started down. There was a smile 
on her face, joyous, friendly words on her lips. 
But the words died in her throat, her smile faded 
and in utter silence Nan’s cold little hand met his, 
while his brisk, businesslike words fell like a cold 
wind on her spirit 

“ You were very good to come, Miss Nan. The 
doctor tells me you were invaluable.” 

The formality of his tone killed her eager, flut¬ 
tering joy. Feelings—all sorts of feelings—rose' 
tumultuously in her breast. 

“ I’m sure Miss Burton is even more appreciative 
than I am,” he continued. 

He stood there smiling easily, one step below 
her, but a thousand miles away. Nan nearly suf¬ 
focated. 


278 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


" After all—my coming hasn’t really mattered,” 
she heard herself saying. Her thoughts labored 
through the pause like a ship in a high sea. 

44 1 suppose I’m not needed any longer? ” 

44 Why—no. I suppose not.” 

She nodded and went on down to the kitchen. 

44 Just a cup of soup, Sarah, please.” 

Fool! Twice now, and hurt a second time too. 
Imbecile! What had she expected? What could 
she have expected—not even here at his bidding? 
Well, she’d go. He needn’t tell her in words what 
his manner made clear as sunlight. He was, of 
course, obliged for her help in an emergency, though 
he wondered if it had been necessary to call her. 
At any rate the emergency was past now. She 
wasn’t needed any longer. The nurse would stay 

and there was Sarah and Miss Burton- Oh! 

She couldn’t go quickly enough. She drank her 
soup, burning her throat. No matter. Her hands 
were cold enough. 

When she went up the nurse was leaving for a 
short walk. Would Miss Carter be here? Miss 
Burton was asleep. Would she mind? The boy 
seemed so anxious to have her. Asked for her 
all the time. Nan’s hesitancy vanished. She 
nodded and went swiftly in. A faint color was 
in Bobby’s cheeks now, and at the sweet wel- 
279 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


come in his great eyes Nan's heart filled with 
warmth. 

“ Darling boy. Did you want Nan? " 

“ Yes, I wish I could rock." 

Nan straightened and looked about the room for 
a comfortable chair. Bruce rose from the big 
rocker and pushed it forward. With his help she 
lifted the pathetically thin little figure and held him 
all bundled about with comforters, in her arms. 
They sat by the window, looking out at the May 
world of sunshine, and Nan, her lips against his 
dear black head, her eyes averted from the man 
who sat so silently, passed the trying time with 
stories of “ Sunny," Betty's baby. 

Once Bob's thin hand came up to caress Nan’s 
cheek, a thin sigh quivered out. 

“You'll stay here, now, won’t you, Nan?" 

Nan's gray eyes met the brown ones across the 
room over Bobby's head. He spoke at once, quietly, 
courteously. 

“ You mustn't think of going yet—please.” 

“ I’ll stay as long as I am needed, boy dear.” 

“ Forever,” he said with sudden passion. “ For¬ 
ever, Nan. Living's all—like the sun’s gone out— 
without you.” 

So Nan stayed. Through apple-blossom time, 
through the month of scented winds, tender greens 
280 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


and golden sunlight. Summer deepened into June. 
Bobby was up and about, pale and thin, but never¬ 
theless quite “ Bobbity,” as Nan said. Shirley was 
home again. The nurse was gone. Nan wondered 
and wept and wondered some more. Should she 
ask Bruce if she should go? And receive another 
polite assurance that she should? Unthinkable! 
No, she would simply go, this time. No painful 
interview, no unasked questions biting her tongue, 
no bitterness burning her heart. She would simply 
go. Leaving a note, of course, a cool little note 
explaining- 

What? She found the note difficult to write, 
but somehow, one day, she got it done. The chil¬ 
dren were out with Miss Burton. Bruce was not 
due to return until five-thirty. She could catch the 
four-thirty train and be back at Betty’s by seven, 
easily. It was now three-thirty. 

She packed, dressed and in fifteen minutes stood 
behind the closed door of her room, her suitcase in 
her hand, her breath coming fast under her brown 
coat, her eyes big under the nestling hat with its 
bright orange feather. She would slip down now 
and leave the note on his desk on the way. 

At the foot of the stairs Nan paused a moment, 
her heart in her throat. Bruce’s footsteps on the 
verandah! Bruce’s key in the lock! Oh, heavens! 

281 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


What should she do? She did want to avoid an¬ 
other meeting with its embarrassing explanations, 
its troubling farewells. Nan gave a wild glance 
about, then slipped like a shadow into the kitchen 
and thrust the note into Sarah’s hand. 

“ Give this to Mr. Wilson. I’ve got to catch my 
train.” 

And as Bruce came in at the front of the house 
Nan went out at the back. 


282 





CHAPTER XX 


The shriek of a locomotive cut the stillness of 
the summer afternoon. Far off in the distance 
Nan saw black smoke streak across a blue sky. In 
dismay she glanced at her watch. It had stopped. 
She couldn’t possibly make the train now. It was 

a ten-minute walk by the road, unless- 

She caught her suitcase tighter in her hand and 
started at a run across the apple orchard. It was 
a short-cut. The path through the woods at the 
other edge of the field saved five whole minutes. 
There was a chance and she must take it. 

The suitcase bumped against her knees. Her 
high-heeled pumps turned her ankles as she ran and 
deep down in her was a desire to laugh. The situ¬ 
ation held something of humor in spite of its des¬ 
peration. She hoped Bruce wasn’t watching her 
out of his back window. Oh—would she never get 
her second breath? And now that pain in her side. 

Nan had to slacken her pace. The sharp stitch 
caught her breath from her. Half-way across the 
orchard she stopped abruptly. It was utterly use¬ 
less. The train was already standing at the station. 
In the silence that was all around her Nan heard it 
puffing and panting. Tears blurred her eyes. 

“ Nan!” 


283 


THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Whatever of laughter there was lurking in the 
depths of her died at the sound of Bruce’s voice. 

“ What in the world does this mean? ” 

He stood before her, his hair tossed by his run and 
in his eyes a tremendous excitement. There reached 
to Nan, through her own concern at this moment, 
a consciousness of a Bruce almost violently holding 
himself in check. But she had neither the poise 
nor the time to guess at the meaning of this. 

“ Didn’t Sarah give you my note ? ” 

“ Your note! It said nothing. You had to go. 
But why ? Is someone ill ? ” 

Nan shook her head. 

“ Then why ? ” 

“ This is ridiculous, standing here like this argu¬ 
ing. I have to go, that’s all there is to say.” 

Nan, pushed to the wall, flung up her head and 
blazed at him: 

“ It isn’t all.” 

He picked up her suitcase, talking rapidly all the 
time. It was ridiculous, though. She’d missed her 
train. There wasn’t another for three hours. 
Was she going to wait there in the field all that 
time? Or did she imagine he was going to leave 
her, supperless, at the station to wait? He would 
tell her what they were going to do. They were 
going right straight back to the house and after 
284 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


supper, when the children were in bed, they’d have 
things out 

“—have things out.” He flung it at her, a com¬ 
mand and a challenge. 

“ Yes.” Nan agreed suddenly. And in a silence 
as astonishing as his tumbling cataract of words had 
been they moved side by side back to the house. 

Nan could never afterward recall the three hours 
that passed between the time of her return to the 
house and the time when, up in her room, she heard 
the back door slam on Sarah and Miss Burton’s 
door close quietly on herself. 

The children were in bed. The house was still 
and Bruce was waiting below. Nan, white as a 
ghost, walked quickly down to the dear familiar 
living-room to begin the business of having things 
out. 

He stood quietly, across the room at the window, 
looking out at the sunset, and Nan stood quite 
quietly at the door until he turned. 

“Will you come in? This is going to be dif¬ 
ficult-” 

But Nan’s uplifted hand interrupted him. There 
was in her bearing as she stood close before him a 
breathless courage, a final gripping of her determi¬ 
nation to say what had lain for so long in her heart. 

“ Please—let me talk first. I must—before you 

285 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


do. I made a dreadful mistake—back in the winter, 
you know,—saying those terrible things about you. 
I don't see, now, how I could have hurt you so. 
I’m sorry.” 

The simplicity and sincerity of this caught the 
man by the throat. He started to speak but Nan 
shook her head. 

“ No. Wait. I want you to know this too. I 
never forgot my promise to you. I’ve kept it, all 
this time. You remember?” She repeated it 
childishly. “ I said I’d try always to trust; you, 
never to hate you, and I’ve tried, Bruce, with all 
the pretend-spirit I owned. I’ve tried so hard that 
—I’ve succeeded.” 

He bent closer at this, trying to read in the clear 
gray eyes so frankly meeting his, the meaning that 
lay behind the words. 

“ I mean this,” a sweet smile deepened the pale 
loveliness in her face. “ I don’t know what hap¬ 
pened to all my miserable suspicions. They’re just 
gone, that’s all. I don’t know what you’re doing. 

I don’t care whether you ever explain or not-” 

she spread out her hands. “ It’s simply impossible 
for me to really and truly believe you’re anything 
but fine.” 

“ Nan—Nan—dear-” 

“ No.” Nan shook her head again. “ Don't 
286 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


think you have to explain anything. You don’t. 
It’s all right. And now, please, may I go? I can 
still get my train-” 

A sudden fatigue seized her. The light in her 
face died as though a candle within had been ex¬ 
tinguished. Looking at her, blocking her way, 
Bruce asked his question very gently. 

“ This isn’t entirely having things out, is it? 
Why must you go, Nan, if you feel that way about 
me? Why can’t you stay and begin again? ” 

Nan’s eyes, moving from his face to the clear 
paling sky, narrowed with pain. For a long 
moment she gazed at far-away and unseen things 
while the lonely sound of frogs came to her through 
the stillness of the summer night. That, and the 
deepening twilight in the room made her brave. 
With the slightest perceptible shrug her wide gaze 
met Bruce’s and her answer came with a startling 
simplicity. 

“ Because, Bruce dear, I love you so. Now 

please,— oh, Bruce! You are -! Let me pass. 

Let me go somewhere where I can hide myself! ” 

He opened his arms. 

“ This is the only place you can hide from me, 
Nan o’ mine.” 

There was a song in the words, a familiar caress 
in his dear voice, and Nan, looking hungrily through 
287 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


the gathering darkness into his face, very quickly 
hid. The tears tumbled from her brimming eyes 
to meet laughter at her lips and both of them were 
kissed away by the man against whose pounding 
heart she lay so,close. 

“ The wonder of it-” he murmured. “ The 

wonder of having you tell me this before I could 
say a thing. I had my explanation all ready, Nan o' 
mine. Came home early to tell it to you. I was 
going to tear away all the cobwebs of the last few 
months- ” 

Nan's soft hand closed over his mouth, was kissed 
and held there. But later, with the room still in 
darkness, and no one but the Good Luck Fairies 
hovering about to know that one big chair was 
holding two, he returned to the subject again. 

“ You must let me, dear heart. It's my time to 
talk." 

“ Just forward-looking things then. The horrid 
behind-ones are dead and done for." 

But at his first words Nan was upright, tense and 
still. For he was again, as that afternoon, filled 
with an excitement that threatened to burst its 
bonds. She snapped on a light, and with dismay, 
delight, shame and pride passing swiftly over her 
face, she heard Bruce's story to the end. 

Nan had been mistaken—as her father had— 
288 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


about Robert Wilson. He was not one of the in¬ 
fluential stockholders of the Eastern Silk Companies. 
His interest was small and his opinion of little 
weight,—of no weight apparently, at the time of the 
meeting that settled Mr. Carter’s fate. Shortly 
after that he had been taken ill and had never gone 
actively into business again. He had been ordered 
south by his doctor and kept in touch with affairs 
at the office only in a desultory way. On his return 
some four or five years later he had asked about the 
Carters only to learn of their failure and removal 
to another town. He wrote Nan’s father immedi¬ 
ately but had never received an answer. 

“ Dad never got it, I’m sure,” Nan announced. 

“ I was just growing up,” Bruce went on. “ He 
told me about it. Seemed to bother him dreadfully 
that an old friendship went on the rocks like that. 
He left it a charge to me to hunt you people up and 
square accounts in any way I could.” 

“ But there was nothing to square! ” Nan cried. 

“ No, but he wanted you to understand. Dad’s 
business policy was always as clean as sunlight. 
The Company he was connected with had done 
something dirty. He wanted to wash the slate so 
far as he was concerned.” 

Nan’s hand crept into his and nestled there. 

‘‘I was young and Dad’s story didn’t take hold 
289 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


until I got into the business myself, then one day 
somebody else’s hard luck story came to my ears. I 
was roused, and memory began its work. I tried to 
get hold of you, found your old address but you had 
left. Ever since then, I’ve had eyes and ears open 
for a clue as to the Carter family. Life is funny, 
isn’t it, Nan? You walked right into my office and 
two months later told me that Ferguson, who had 
been working for me for ten years, was your 
father’s foreman and an inventor.” 

He paused and met Nan’s puzzled gaze with the 
dear tender smile. 

“ Don’t you see, honey-bell, loving you—and 
knowing your story—there was nothing for it but 
put that machine on the market myself ? ” 

Still Nan was bewildered. How could he? 

“ I sold my business for a decent figure before the 
silk market went to pieces. Then I sold my house, 
and—well, of course Dad had left me securities. I 
had enough, with the help of a few friends, to form 
a company and get things going. And it’s going! ” 
Bruce was afire with enthusiasm over his success. 
“ Everything is in great shape now. The machine 
is built and on exhibit to-day. Orders are begin¬ 
ning to come in. Advertising has begun. It’ll 
mean money some time, honey! ” 

“ For Ferguson? ” 


290 




THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Bruce tipped Nan’s face up to his. 

■“ Nan, sweet, of course. The written agreement 
was, you remember, that whatever profits Ferguson 
made, he was to divide fifty-fifty with your father. 
He being dead, his share will come to you and your 
brothers and sisters-” 

“But Bruce!” Nan was laughing and crying. 
“ Bruce, dear, what are you doing it for ? What 
are you getting out of it? ” 

“ I did it for you, dear heart, because I love you 
—and I’m getting back just exactly the money I put 
in it at the start, with interest, nothing more.” He 
smiled a little. “ I lined my friends’ nests beauti¬ 
fully though.” 

“ As far as I can see,” Nan said slowly, “ every¬ 
body’s taken care of on this deal,—Ferguson, your 
friends, who put up the money needed later, the 
Carters,—everybody but the man who did all the 
work and deserves all the credit. Well, I shall take 
care of you. Speaking for the Carters, Bruce, I 
want you to stay in that company as our representa¬ 
tive. Bruce,” with characteristic swiftness her 
mind leaped to something else, “why didn’t you 
tell me all this before ? ” 

“ If I had, how much would you have let me do? 
Would you have let me change my mode of living— 
for you? ” 


291 





THE DEAR PRETENDER 


Nan shook her head. 

“ That is what I meant, that time you came down 
to tell me you had whipped Bob. Do you remem¬ 
ber? ‘There is honor in some silences/ I said. 
You disagreed so vehemently. Do you see now, 
Nan? ” 

She took his face between her hands. 

“Yes, I see. Oh, gracious! I see so many 
things I never saw before.” 

With her eyes on his they looked at each other 
for a long moment. Then Nan, with a smile break¬ 
ing the seriousness of her face, lifted a finger. 

“Hush! Listen hard, man dear. Don’t you 
hear the Good Luck Fairies laughing at us? ” 

He caught her close. “ You—dear Pretender! ” 


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